#code : epitaph

Not in the Hollow Crest way, where skin showing means freedom of movement. This is Valiskan obscene—exposure designed to make you look available while maintaining plausible deniability about intent.

The fabric is something called starweave—actual crystalline threading woven into midnight silk that catches light and throws it back in fragmented patterns.

It clings. Everywhere.

From the high collar that wraps your throat, down over your chest where the material goes sheer enough to suggest rather than conceal, then pools at your hips before splitting in a slit that runs up to mid-thigh.

Your back is completely exposed. Just bare skin from neck to the base of your spine, where the fabric finally deigns to exist again.

The color is deep indigo—Valis Core's signature shade—shot through with silver threading that forms patterns you don't recognize. Probably some cultural significance you're supposed to understand but don't because you're not actually from here.

You're just wearing their colors like a fucking flag.

"Stop fidgeting," Tara snaps from behind you.

You bare your teeth at the mirror. "Stop touching me."

"I'm adjusting." Her hands yank at the back of the dress, pulling it lower. Making more skin visible. "If you'd stand still for five seconds—"

"If you pull that any lower, my entire ass is gonna be out."

"The design requires proper positioning—"

"The design requires me to look like a whore." You twist away from her grip. "What's next, you gonna paint my tits and call it formal wear?"

Tara's mouth flattens. "You should be grateful Commander Kim selected something tasteful. The original design was far more revealing."

"Oh, fantastic. He picked the modest prostitute look instead of the ambitious one."

"You're being vulgar—"

"I'm being honest."

You gesture at the mirror. At the way the dress makes you look like some Valis Core fantasy of what a matched partner should be.

Polished. Displayed. 

Claimed.

"This entire thing is political theater, and I'm the prop."

"You're the match." Tara moves around you, assessing with critical eyes that make your skin itch. "100% compatibility. Unprecedented pairing. Of course they want to showcase—"

"Showcase. Right. That's a nice word for 'parade around like a trained animal.'"

She stops. Actually looks at you for the first time since this whole nightmare started.

And something in her expression shifts. Hardens.

"I can't believe someone like you got matched to Commander Kim."

You meet her eyes in the mirror.

She looks Valiskan—the height, the bone structure, the pale skin that screams Core genetics.

Everything about her reads pure bloodline. Proper. Acceptable.

Everything you're not.

"Yeah?" Your voice drops. "Well, neither can I. But here we are."

"You should be honored," she continues, and there's real bitterness threading through now. "Do you have any idea how many would kill to be in your position?"

"Yeah? Name one."

"Me." Her hands move to the dress again, yanking. "I would. Any of us would be grateful for—"

"For what?" You twist away from her grip. "For being matched to the architect of the death lottery? For getting dressed up so Consortium elite can admire the Algorithm's latest science project?"

"You don't deserve him—"

"You're right. I don't." You step closer. "I deserve to gut him. Slowly. While you watch."

Her face goes white. Then red. Then she's grabbing the dress again, yanking the fabric with enough force that you stumble.

"Stop—"

"The back needs to sit properly—"

"I said stop—"

Your hand shoots out. Swats hers away sharper than intended, harder.

And her eyes flash.

Not violet. Not the pure Valis purple you've been seeing everywhere since you got dragged to Core.

Red.

You freeze.

Because you know that glint. You’ve seen it in Jungkook’s eyes. You’ve seen it plenty in your childhood. Know exactly what it means.

Mournwell.

She's Mournwell.

Or half, at least. Enough that her eyes betray her under stress. Enough that she's been hiding it behind Valiskan features and proper behavior and—

"Tara."

You both freeze.

Namjoon stands in the doorway.

And fuck—

He looks—

Your brain stutters. Reroutes. Tries to process what you're seeing and fails because your body's already responding in ways you absolutely hate.

He's wearing formal Consortium attire. Not the standard tactical gear. Actual formal wear.

The jacket is structured—sharp lines and geometric weaves that emphasize his shoulders and height. Black base fabric with indigo accents that catch light like liquid, threaded with what looks like actual starlight. Platinum clasps at the collar and cuffs, engraved with symbols you don't recognize but that probably mean something hierarchical.

The pants fit. Really fit. Enough that you can see the way his thighs shift when he moves, the way fabric outlines muscle and—

Stop it.

His hair is styled back from his face, revealing the white streak fully. Making those purple eyes even more pronounced against pale skin that seems to glow.

He looks like authority.

Like power.

Like everything you've spent your life learning to destroy.

"Commander Kim." Tara's voice shifts immediately. Respectful. She folds her left arm behind her back—Valiskan sign of deference—and bows her head slightly. "The match is nearly prepared."

"The match has a name," you mutter.

Namjoon's gaze shifts to you.

And—

He stops.

Just for a second. Maybe less.

But you catch it. The way his eyes track down your body then back up. The way his pupils dilate just enough to be visible.

Then he blinks. Recalibrates. Expression smoothing back to neutral like nothing happened.

"Tara," he says, and his voice carries warmth you didn't know he was capable of. "Take some time off. Your duties have been executed excellently."

Tara blinks. "But Commander, the styling isn't complete—"

"It's sufficient." He tilts his head slightly. Almost... gentle. "You've worked three rotations without rest. The preparation halls can function without you for one Wane."

"I should stay to ensure—"

"Tara."

It's not harsh. But it’s firm.

"Rest."

Her mouth opens. Closes.

Then she nods, that red glint flickering in her eyes again before she gathers her supplies with quick movements and exits through the side door.

Leaving you alone with him.

In a room full of mirrors that show every angle of how exposed you are in this fucking dress.

Namjoon doesn't move from the doorway. Just stands there, one hand resting on a tablet, attention seemingly fixed on the screen.

Not looking at you.

Which pisses you off more than staring would.

"Something wrong, Warden?" You turn, letting the slit in the dress expose your leg fully. "Not what you ordered?"

"It's appropriate."

"Appropriate for what? A brothel?"

His mouth curves. Barely. "For a formal Consortium gathering. Which you are required to attend."

"Required to attend dressed like—" You gesture at yourself. "Like this?"

"Yes."

"And if I refuse?"

"You won't."

The certainty in his voice makes your hands curl into fists.

Because he's right. You can’t afford to refuse.

"What are you doing here?" you demand. "Thought formal preparation was supposed to be communal. Where's your bonding circle or whatever the fuck Valiskans do?"

"Completed earlier." He glances at the tablet screen, thumb moving across the interface. "I'm conducting final security review for tonight's attendee list."

"Of course you are."

You should leave him alone. Should finish whatever preparation bullshit is expected and get this nightmare evening over with.

Instead you move closer.

He's tall enough that even standing right next to him, you can't see the tablet screen properly. You rise onto your toes, leaning in to get a better angle—

The movement brings you into his personal space.

Close enough to smell winter storms and that particular snowy scent that accompanies him everywhere.

His posture shifts. Subtle adjustment that might be awareness or might be discomfort.

You peer at the screen.

Guest list. Names in Altsprek with Consortium designation codes. Approximately forty attendees authorized for tonight's celebration. Security clearance levels noted beside each entry.

Namjoon's hand hovers over one name.

Your eyes catch it just before his thumb moves.

Kim Seokjin - Clearance Level 6 - Independent Contractor

There's a pause. Maybe half a second where his thumb just... stops. Hovering over the entry like he's reconsidering.

Then he swipes.

The name gets flagged. Moved to the unauthorized column.

Crossed off the guest list.

"Old friend?" you ask quietly.

His gaze stays on the screen. "Old nothing."

His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth. Dismissive.

The sound hits you like a backhand—not because it hurts, but because of what it means. That tiny, involuntary noise Valiskans make when something’s beneath their attention. When a question doesn’t even warrant the energy of a proper deflection.

He just tsk’d you.

Like you’re a child pulling at his sleeve.

“Right,” you say, voice going flat. “Old nothing. That’s why your thumb hovered for three seconds before you crossed him off.”

“My thumb hovered because the interface lagged.” He doesn’t look up. “Consortium networks experience latency spikes during high-security event preparation. If you understood basic systems architecture, you’d know that.”

“Right. Latency spike. On a local device running a cached guest list.” You tilt your head. “Must be a real shit network you’ve built if it can’t handle a swipe function.”

His jaw shifts. Barely.

Good.

“Your technical knowledge,” he says slowly, still staring at the tablet, “is impressive for someone who learned systems theory from smuggled data chips in mining tunnels. But it’s still mining tunnel knowledge. It has limitations you’re not equipped to identify.”

Your nails bite into your palms.

“Funny. My mining tunnel knowledge has cost your program six months of research data, four compromised facilities, and—what was it—forty-three confirmed casualties?” You smile. All teeth. “How many casualties has your Valis Core education produced, Warden? Oh, wait. You don’t count those. You call them necessary sacrifices for optimal biological continuation.”

He sets the tablet down, places it face-down on the surface beside him, aligns its edge with the table’s corner—perfectly parallel—then folds his hands behind his back.

And looks at you.

“You have food in your teeth,” he says.

You blink.

“What?”

“Protein residue. Left canine.” He turns back to the tablet. “You might want to address that before the gathering.”

Your tongue sweeps your teeth immediately—automatic, furious—and finds nothing. Nothing.

He lied.

The fucker lied to make you check.

To make you care about something as stupid as your appearance in front of him, even for half a second.

And you fell for it.

“Cute,” you manage, but the word comes out strangled.

He smiles then—that thin, polished little curve of his mouth that looks almost courteous until you catch what’s underneath it. Satisfaction. Amusement. The private kind. The kind that says he knows exactly where he cut and is pleased with the depth.

He scrolls again, maddeningly calm. “You spent four minutes explaining why I should fear your tactical record. I negated the entire performance with six words.”

“You mean you lied.”

“I mean I redirected.”

You stare at the side of his face. “God, you are such a smug piece of shit.”

His expression does not change, which only makes the faint menace in it worse. “And yet your pulse accelerated.”

“Because murder is cardio.”

“Mm.”

That little sound. That tiny, infuriating hum of acknowledgment.

Then his gaze lifts. His eyes travel from your shoulder to the exposed line of your spine, down to where the dress still sits higher than Tara wanted, clinging over the upper swell of your ass instead of dipping low enough to bare it the way she kept insisting it should.

“Your styling remains incomplete,” he says mildly.

You bark out a laugh. “Oh, now you care?”

“I cared when I entered the room. I merely deprioritized it in favor of security review.”

“You mean in favor of being annoying.”

He glances at you. “If that is what you want to call it.”

You scoff.

He tilts his head toward your reflection. “The back should sit lower.”

Your spine stiffens. “No.”

His gaze returns to the mirror. “Yes.”

“It’s already indecent.”

And that—finally—actually gets a reaction.

Surprise.

His brows shift by a fraction. His head turns slightly, properly regarding you now like you’ve just informed him gravity works differently in Hollow Crest.

“Indecent,” he repeats.

“Yes, indecent,” you snap. “You want my whole ass out for state dinner.”

“Your entire ass would not be out.”

“Anatomically generous distinction.”

“It would rest at the superior curve,” he says, in that maddeningly measured tone. “Which is the intended line.”

“The intended line is vulgar.”

This time he blinks.

Actually blinks.

Then his mouth parts just slightly, and when he speaks again there is the faintest edge of genuine disbelief under all that perfect control. “Vulgar?”

You throw your hands out. “Yes, vulgar.”

“That,” he says carefully, “is not considered vulgar.”

“In your weird nightmare city maybe—”

“In Valis Core,” he cuts in, turning fully toward you now, “selective exposure through structural draping and sheer layering is associated with rank, wealth, and formal aesthetic literacy.”

You stare at him.

He keeps going, because of course he does, as though explaining a theorem to a stubborn child.

“Visible skin is not inherently sexualized here. Improper presentation is.” His eyes drop meaningfully to the back of the dress. “This reads unfinished.”

You laugh once. Sharp. “Unfinished.”

“Yes.”

“Because I’m not showing enough ass?”

He pauses.

Then, with absolute seriousness: “Correct.”

For one full second the room goes silent.

Then you huff out a disbelieving breath. “You cannot be a real person.”

“I am unfortunately well-documented.”

“You’re telling me if I walk into this event with the back where it is now, people are gonna think I’m underdressed because they can’t see the beginning of my ass crack?”

His expression stays serenely composed. “They will think your tailoring was mishandled.”

“That is psychotic.”

“That is cultural differences.”

You glare at him in the mirror. “You just want something worth looking at.”

His pupils shift. Tiny. Immediate.

But his voice stays smooth. “The dress was selected for match appeal.”

“Oh my god.”

“You asked.”

“You are unbelievable.”

“And you are resisting on the basis of a social code that does not apply in this sector.”

You spin to face him. “You don’t get to talk to me like I’m a malfunctioning display unit.”

He considers you for a beat, then says with infuriating calm, “No. A display unit would have followed specification by now.”

The righteous little shit. Standing there in his immaculate formalwear pretending this is all objective, all polite, all proper, while every word lands like a calculated flick to the forehead.

You look at the mirror again. At the dress. At the high line of the back.

Fine.

Fine.

You hook your fingers at the sides and tug it down a fraction.

The silk slides over your skin.

Too much. Too exposed. Already wrong.

“There,” you say flatly. “Happy?”

His tongue clicks.

You hate that sound on sight now.

“No.”

You freeze. “No?”

“No.”

He walks toward you.

One step. Two.

You should move.

You don’t.

Because retreat would mean yielding ground and you are absolutely not giving him that satisfaction, even as every nerve under your skin starts sparking from his approach.

He stops behind you.

Your eyes lift to the mirror.

His are already on you there.

“Since this is apparently beyond your skill set,” he says softly, “hold still.”

“Don’t—”

His hands do not go to your waist.

That would have been easier.

Instead his thumbs brush the line where the fabric meets your lower back, barely touching skin, just enough to make your breath hitch with pure unwilling reflex. Then one hand steadies the silk at your hip while the other slides beneath the back edge.

Your whole body locks.

His finger dips under the fabric, knuckle grazing the top of your ass.

“Namjoon—”

“Commander Kim,” he corrects automatically, and the bastard sounds almost absentminded about it, like he’s more focused on the dress than on the fact that he has his hand under it.

Then he leans in.

Not enough to press against you. Not enough to give you anything as crude as contact. Just enough that his mouth is near your ear, his breath a cool thread against your skin.

“If this garment is intended to appeal to your match,” he murmurs, “it should, at minimum, be permitted to do its job.”

And then he pulls.

Slowly.

Slow enough that you feel every fraction of movement as the crystalline silk glides downward over your lower back. Slow enough that the room seems to narrow to that single point of contact, that single deliberate drag, until the dress settles exactly where Tara wanted it all along—right at the top of the curve, skimming the first revealed line of cleft, baring the upper round of your cheeks in a way that feels less naked than curated.

Presented.

Elegant, by Valiskan standards.

Obscene, by yours.

His hand stills there for one suspended second, the other thumb flattening the fabric as if testing the line for symmetry.

In the mirror, his face is composed.

Too composed.

But his eyes are not.

There’s a darkness in them now, low and intent and very, very aware. Not the flat observation from before. Not the bored cruelty of his little lie. This is attention. Controlled within an inch of its life, but attention all the same.

The same way, you realize in one sick hot flash, his own clothes were chosen for you.

The jacket cut to sharpen him. The fitted lines. The exposed throat above the clasp.

His, for your appeal.

Yours, for his.

You hate that understanding on contact.

He straightens. Leans back just enough to put an intolerable inch of air between you.

“There,” he says.

Your voice comes out hoarse. “I can’t believe this shit.”

“Well,” he says, gaze still fixed on the mirror. “This is merely correct.”

You swallow. Hard. “You put your hand under my dress.”

“I adjusted consortium-issued formalwear to proper presentation parameters.”

“You put your hand under my dress,” you repeat.

“And you attempted the correction incorrectly.”

That calm, immaculate tone. That little edge of superiority so clean it could cut glass.

You turn on him fast enough that the skirt sways around your legs. “You could have just told me.”

“I did.”

“You could have told me without—” You gesture helplessly at your own lower back. “Without being like that.”

He tilts his head. “Like what?”

You hate him.

You hate him.

You hate the composed blankness of his face when the corners of his mouth are still threatening that awful private smile.

“Smug.”

“I was precise.”

“Patronizing.”

“You were incorrect.”

“Insufferable.”

“That one,” he says, “is subjective.”

“You really think this makes me appealing?”

He looks at you then. Fully. No dodging. No fake attention to the tablet. His gaze drags once over the new line of the dress, the bare reveal of skin, the shape of you in indigo and silver and Consortium colors you never asked to wear.

And that tiny, mean little smile returns.

“Now,” he says, voice low and devastatingly polite, “you at least appear as though you made an effort.”

The urge that rises in you is immediate, bright, and absurdly clarifying.

Not to slap him.

Not to scream.

Not even to stab him.

Just to smile sweetly through the entire cursed evening and find something fatal to slip into his drink before the nectar course.

Namjoon does not concern himself with trivialities.

This is not arrogance, merely allocation—cognitive bandwidth directed where it yields measurable return. Social performance at Consortium formal events yields very little. Structured chaos dressed in starweave and platinum, where every handshake conceals a negotiation and every toast carries enough subtext to warrant decryption software.

He has attended enough of these to predict behavioral patterns at 92.36% accuracy.

The remaining 7.64% belongs almost entirely to Daltrey.

Eris Daltrey, Commander of Hollow Crest. Level 9. The woman operates on a frequency Namjoon has never successfully mapped—not for lack of data, but because the data itself seems to shift each time he collects it. She contradicts her own patterns with a consistency that borders on tactical artistry. Cruel when mercy would serve her better. Merciful when cruelty would cost her nothing. He has known her since he was young enough that parental faces have since degraded to pixel-level recall in his memory, and she has not become easier to read in the intervening years.

He respects her. Obligatorily. Level 9 authority demands it regardless of personal assessment.

But he'd rather not greet her tonight. Not yet. Not until he has surveyed enough of the room to calculate which conversational angle she'll deploy first.

So his gaze drifts. Tracks perimeter. Catalogs attendees by threat tier and utility index.

Then stops.

You.

Twenty minutes. You have stayed within three meters of his position for twenty consecutive minutes, and Namjoon is still recalibrating why.

He'd projected immediate dispersal. Escape velocity the moment you crossed the threshold—a straight line toward the nearest blind spot in the surveillance grid, which you'd identify within forty seconds based on your documented pattern recognition capabilities. He had even pre-mapped your probable evasion routes (four viable, two optimal, one you'd choose because it would annoy him most).

None of them executed.

Instead, you remain. Close. Not beside him—never beside him, nothing so cooperative—but adjacent. Orbiting at a distance that reads deliberate rather than obedient.

Strange.

Not the compliance itself. He's witnessed compliance before. Forced, pharmaceutical, structural. This is none of those. This is something else, something closer to that quality he has observed in you across years of operational conflict—the way you collide with obstacles head-first rather than routing around them.

You don't evade problems. You bite into them until your teeth hit bone.

He has always found that particular trait…

The word he needs is annoying. He selects it. Confirms it. Logs it.

Annoying.

Specifically when directed at his databases. His encrypted servers. His operational infrastructure that you dismantled as if pulling apart a child's puzzle.

But standing here now, with the Consortium hall pressing its architecture around you—vaulted ceilings carved from Valis basalt, atmospheric aurora channeled through crystalline panels overhead, casting the room in shifting indigo and silver—he finds that the trait does not grate the way it once did.

It simply… exists. Documented. Filed. Permitted to remain without the usual annotation flagging it for behavioral correction.

Irrelevant observation. He moves on.

The dress, however, is not irrelevant.

He did not select it personally. Did not specify parameters or state preferences. But the Consortium's profiling systems are thorough—the same databases that track population heat cycles, rut schedules, genetic compatibility indices, behavioral mapping. They would have cross-referenced. Extrapolated. Delivered a result optimized for match appeal based on his logged responses to visual stimuli across years of accumulated data.

The result is effective.

He permits himself that word. Effective. Clinical. Appropriate for the assessment being conducted.

The starweave catches every source of ambient light in the hall, fragmenting it across the crystalline threading until the fabric itself seems to pulse with its own luminescence. Against your skin, the effect becomes something else entirely. The sheer panels—calculated transparency, neither concealing nor fully revealing—allow the faintest trace of your chromatophores to surface. Bioluminescent markers that shift in the dimming light as Wane approaches, catching blue along the pathways of your veins where Valiskan genetics assert themselves beneath the warmer sienna pigmentation of Crester heritage.

Two bloodlines in visible conflict on the same canvas.

He has reviewed your genetic profile. Knows the percentages. The markers. The exact ratio of Core to Crest expression in your cellular architecture.

Seeing it, though, is different from knowing it.

The way your collarbones catch indigo. The way the silver threading follows the line of your exposed spine and the light trapped in the weave mirrors the faint luminescence pulsing just beneath your skin. The way the fabric sits at your lower back exactly where he positioned it an hour ago, the superior curve exposed in accordance with Valiskan formal convention.

Effective.

He has already used that word. He notes the repetition. Does not correct it.

He almost considers approaching. Closing the three-meter gap to something operational. Necessary. There are logistics to discuss—positioning during the formal address, protocol for the introductory circuit, the eleven points of etiquette you will inevitably violate if left unmonitored.

But you are his match. And your tongue is a vulgarity he has not yet developed sufficient tolerance for in public settings.

So he remains where he is. Cataloging. Not approaching.

And then the 7.64% enters his peripheral vision.

Daltrey moves through the crowd the way atmospheric pressure shifts before a storm—nothing visibly changes, but every surface reacts. Attendees adjust posture. Conversations recalibrate pitch. Even the ambient lighting seems to tighten as she cuts a path directly toward him with the kind of inevitability that makes avoidance calculations collapse into single outcomes.

No reprieve tonight, then.

His spine straightens by a degree he controls, hands linking behind his back in the precise configuration drilled into him since before memory became reliable.

"Commander Kim."

"Commander Daltrey."

Her smile arrives three seconds before it reaches her mouth. He tracks it in the micro-adjustments first—the way her ice-gray eyes narrow by a calculated fraction, the slight lift of her chin, the predatory tilt of her head as she regards him.

"Congratulations are in order, I'm told. A perfect match. Unprecedented. The Algorithm outdid itself."

"The Algorithm performed within designed parameters," he corrects. "The result was statistically improbable, not unprecedented in—"

"Namjoon." She uses his given name the way one handles a scalpel—precise, intimate, meant to remind him she knew him before he became Commander anything. "Don't be tedious. Where are they?"

He does not glance at you. Does not need to. Your position has not shifted from its three-meter orbit since they entered. He can feel the heat signature of your proximity the way atmospheric sensors detect pressure changes before storms.

"My match is present," he says.

Daltrey follows his sightline.

And there you are.

Standing with your weight on one hip, starweave catching fractured light across your collarbones, expression hovering somewhere between bored and homicidal. You've acquired a drink—he didn't authorize that—and you're holding it the wrong way. Crester grip, fingers wrapped around the bowl instead of the stem.

Every Valiskan in your radius has noticed.

None of them matter. Daltrey does.

"Interesting," she murmurs.

He does not ask what she finds interesting. Asking gives her leverage.

"Bring her."

Not a request. Level 9 does not request from Level 7.

Namjoon crosses the three meters in four strides and stops at your shoulder.

"Commander Daltrey wishes to meet you," he says, low enough that only you hear.

Your eyes slide to his. Gold catching dim light. "And if I'd rather chew glass?"

"Then you'll chew glass at her table. She's Level 9. Refusal is not a variable."

You take a long, deliberate sip of whatever you acquired, maintaining eye contact in a way that is either defiant or obscene depending on cultural framework.

Then you move. He follows half a step behind, which he tells himself is tactical positioning and not deference.

Daltrey hasn't moved. She watches your approach.

"Commander Daltrey," Namjoon says, "my Transference match."

He doesn't offer your name. You don't have one that's safe to give in this room.

Your chin lifts. "Charmed."

The single word drips with so much Crester sarcasm it practically leaves residue on the floor.

Daltrey's mouth curves. Thin. Amused.

"Sit," she says, gesturing to the chairs flanking her at the head table. "Both of you. I've arranged placement."

Of course she has.

The seating configuration puts Daltrey at center, Namjoon to her left, you to her right. Strategically separated. Unable to coordinate without her between you like a blade between two whetstones.

He catalogs this. Files it under Daltrey, E. — tactical social positioning, variant 7.

You settle into the chair with the particular gracelessness of someone who's never attended formal dining and refuses to pretend otherwise. Your back hits the rest too hard. Your elbows land on the table immediately.

Three officials at the adjacent setting visibly recoil. Level 8, all of them. Security division. They exchange glances that Namjoon reads fluently: ’this is the match? This?’

"So," Daltrey says, leaning back. Her ice-gray gaze pins you with interest. "You're the variable that broke Namjoon's perfect system."

"Didn't break it." You swirl the drink. "Just showed it where it was already cracked."

Daltrey's attention shifts to him. Evaluating his response. Measuring.

He offers nothing.

"Tell me," Daltrey continues, turning back to you with a warmth that has no warmth in it whatsoever, "what does a Hollow Crest insurgent make of Valis Core hospitality? Are we meeting your standards?"

"The food's better than compressed protein paste. The company's worse." You take a sip. "Call it even."

Daltrey laughs.

"I can see why the Algorithm chose you." Her fingers trace the rim of her own glass—slow. "Namjoon has always surrounded himself with precision instruments. It must be refreshing to finally have something in his proximity that bites back."

Namjoon's jaw shifts by a millimeter.

"Commander Daltrey oversees Hollow Crest operations," he says. Neutral. Informational.

Your hand stills on the glass.

He watches the realization land—watches the way your shoulders lock, the gold in your eyes going flat and hard as you process exactly who is sitting beside you. The woman who governs the tunnels you grew up in. Who signs the mining quotas that grind Crester populations into compliance. Whose security forces patrol the corridors where your people starve and bleed and bury their dead in unmarked alcoves.

Your voice drops. "You run the Crest."

"I administer the Crest," Daltrey corrects. "Not the same."

"Yeah?" Your smile shows too many teeth. "The people choking on mineral dust twenty levels below your office might disagree."

Daltrey doesn't flinch.

That's the first thing he logs. No micro-expression shift. No tightening of the jaw. Not even the polite recalibration most officials perform when confronted with civilian suffering statistics in social settings.

She just looks at you.

"Mineral dust," she repeats, and her voice carries the particular flatness of someone who has heard every variation of this argument and found each one equally irrelevant. "Fascinating. You've been back in my sector for—what—forty-eight hours? And you've already appointed yourself advocate for the labor population."

Her fingers haven't moved from the glass. Still tracing the rim. Circular.

"Let me clarify something for you, since Commander Kim's briefings clearly omitted context."

She leans forward. Not much. An inch, maybe two. But the temperature at the table drops by a perceptible degree.

"I don't administer Hollow Crest to keep its citizens comfortable. I administer it to keep them functional. Comfort is a Crester myth your people invented to make poverty sound like a philosophy."

Your jaw locks. Namjoon watches the gold in your eyes go incandescent.

"Survival rates are a resource management outcome," Daltrey continues. "Not a moral one. If your miners are choking, it is because their sector allocation has not merited ventilation upgrades. Productivity earns infrastructure. Sentiment does not."

The Level 8 officials have stopped pretending to eat. Two are watching Daltrey with the careful reverence of subordinates who know exactly how fast she can end careers. The third is watching you with something Namjoon identifies, catalogs, and immediately dislikes.

Interest.

The particular kind of attention that Valiskan genetics produce in response to hybrid phenotype expression. Your chromatophores are still catching light through the starweave's sheer panels—Crester warmth and Valiskan bioluminescence in visible conflict across your skin—and in Valis Core, that combination triggers responses that have more to do with evolutionary biology than conscious preference.

Hybrids are rare. Hybrids with visible dual-spectrum chromatophore activity are rarer. Hybrids who look like you while wearing Valiskan formal couture are functionally nonexistent.

The official's gaze tracks the line of your throat above the high collar. Lingers.

Namjoon files it. Moves on.

(Does not move on. Logs this failure to move on. Moves on from that too.)

Daltrey has not moved on either, but her attention operates on different axes. Her ice-gray eyes trace the architecture of your face, the stubborn set of your mouth, the defiant angle of your shoulders, and something in her expression shifts by a fraction that most people would miss entirely.

Namjoon does not miss it.

Appreciation.

"Your match has opinions," Daltrey observes, addressing him without looking away from you.

"My match has a surplus of them," he confirms.

Your head snaps toward him. Gold eyes narrowing.

"Surplus," you repeat. "That's generous. Usually you just call them inefficient."

"Context-dependent. In private, inefficient. In public—" He pauses. Selects the word with care. "—abundant."

"Abundant." Your laugh is a sharp, ugly thing. "Hear that, Commander Daltrey? I'm abundant. That's Valiskan for 'won't shut the fuck up and it's embarrassing him.'"

Two officials cough simultaneously.

Daltrey's mouth curves. That thin, bloodless line that Namjoon has never once mistaken for warmth.

"Is it embarrassing?" she asks him.

He meets her gaze. Holds it. "Embarrassment requires emotional investment in external perception. I do not experience it."

"No," Daltrey agrees. "You don't, do you."

She turns back to you, chin resting on her knuckles. Commander's insignia catching light at her collar.

"But she does. Look at her, Namjoon. She's performing."

The word lands like a blade laid flat against skin. Not cutting. Promising.

Your expression stiffens.

"Performing," you say.

"Every word out of your mouth since you sat down has been calculated to provoke him." Daltrey's gaze doesn't waver. "The posture. The elbows on the table. The Crester grip on the glass. You're not ignorant of Valiskan etiquette—you're weaponizing your ignorance of it."

Silence.

Cold, structural silence that spreads outward from the head table like fracture lines through glass.

Namjoon watches your throat work. A swallow you're trying to suppress.

Because Daltrey is right. And you know she's right. And she knows you know.

"Interesting creature," Daltrey murmurs, and her eyes drop once—brief, deliberate—to the exposed line of your collarbones where chromatophores pulse faint blue through sienna skin. Then back up. "I understand the Algorithm's logic better now."

She lifts her glass. Tips it toward him in a gesture that carries seventeen layers of political meaning he decodes instantly.

This match is leverage. You know it. I know it. The question is who exploits it first.

"To the Epitaph Architect," she says, voice carrying across the table with the authority of someone who expects the room to listen. "And to his unprecedented variable."

Glasses rise around the table. Officials drink.

You do too.

Namjoon lifts his own glass.

Reflex stops him. Old habit, older than protocol, drilled into the autonomic layer where conscious thought doesn't reach.

The glass tilts in his grip—fractional, invisible to anyone not trained to look—and the liquid shifts against the rim at the precise angle required for olfactory assessment.

Sub-molecular. Buried beneath the fermentation profile and the sharp bite of Valiskan mineral-fruit alcohol—terrace-grown, sequence-fermented, calibrated for a fruitvore metabolism. A synthetic alkaloid derivative—Crester-sourced, black market grade, designed to pass standard Veyran sensory thresholds without detection. Faint. Elegant, almost.

Lethal within four minutes for any Veyran biology.

His gaze cuts to Daltrey's glass. Still in her hand. Still full. She's mid-sentence with a Level 8 security official, hasn't brought it to her mouth yet.

Then it cuts to you, already drinking it.

All three glasses.

You poisoned all three glasses.

Crude. Suicidal. Ruthlessly logical.

He lifts his glass. Drinks. All of it. Then sets his empty glass down. Reaches across Daltrey. Takes hers from her hand mid-sentence and drains it in one motion.

Daltrey's eyebrow lifts. A fraction.

"Commander Kim. That was mine."

"The vintage warranted appreciation." He places both empties on the table, aligned parallel. "Apologies for the breach of etiquette."

Her ice-gray gaze holds his for two seconds longer than social convention permits. She doesn't believe him. But she also doesn't press, because pressing would acknowledge irregularity she didn't orchestrate, and Daltrey does not concede that kind of ground.

Fifty-seven seconds. That's how long you have before the alkaloid reaches hepatic processing and begins systemic shutdown.

Namjoon stands.

"If you'll excuse us." His voice carries across the table with the particular calm that Level 7 authority affords—not requesting, informing. "My match requires air. The atmospheric composition appears to be causing discomfort."

Concerned murmurs. Officials shifting. Daltrey's gaze tracking him like a surveillance turret as he rounds the table, reaches your chair, and closes his hand around your upper arm.

His grip is not gentle.

You look up at him. Gold eyes flat. Calculating. Already reading the situation, already processing that something has gone wrong with your plan because he should be showing symptoms by now and he's not.

"Get up," he says. Low enough that the table doesn't hear.

"I'm fi—"

"You have forty-one seconds. Get up."

Something in his tone must register, because you stand. Unsteady—the first symptom, balance disruption as the alkaloid hits your vestibular system. He catalogues it. Keeps his hand on your arm. Tight enough that his fingers indent the bare skin above your elbow.

You cross the hall together.

From the outside, it reads as courteous escort. His hand at your arm, guiding. Your stride only slightly irregular—attributable to unfamiliar footwear or Valiskan atmospheric adjustment.

No one stops you two. No one questions Commander Kim attending to his matched partner's comfort at his own celebration.

The corridor narrows. Service wing. Less surveillance, more function.

His pace increases. Your feet struggle to keep up, the dress restricting your stride, and he doesn't slow down because you have twenty-eight seconds now and he can feel the tremor starting in your arm where his fingers grip.

"What—" You're pulling against him. "What are you doing—"

The bathroom door. He hits the panel. It slides open.

He shoves you through.

You stumble. Catch yourself on the basin's edge, whipping around with that feral snap he's noted a hundred times, and your fist connects with his shoulder before he's even cleared the doorframe.

"What the fuck is your problem—"

He locks the door. Steps forward.

You swing again. He catches your wrist. Redirects. Your back hits the wall beside the basin and his hand finds your jaw before you can recover.

Not a hold. A mechanism.

His thumb hooks against your lower teeth, forcing your mouth open. Presses down on your tongue, flattening it, keeping it out and forward so you can't bite, can't close, can't do anything but make a strangled sound of fury that vibrates against his fingers.

Your nails find his forearm. Drag. He feels the sting and ignores it.

His other hand tears a foil packet from his inner jacket pocket. Teeth rip the seal. Small capsule—white, unmarked, standard Consortium emergency antidote for Class-7 through Class-12 synthetic alkaloids.

He places it on the back of your tongue. Deep enough to trigger reflex.

"Swallow."

Your eyes are wild. Gold and furious and terrified in a way you'd rather die than admit, and your claws dig harder into his forearm, drawing blood now, but your throat works—involuntary, the gag reflex doing what your stubbornness won't—and the capsule goes down.

He holds your jaw for two more seconds. Counting. Confirming.

Then you spit in his face.

Direct hit. Center of his left cheek. The impact is warm and carries the lingering chemical trace of the alkaloid your body is already beginning to neutralize.

He releases you.

Steps back. Wipes his face with the back of his hand.

You're gasping. Bent forward, braced against the wall, chest heaving. The tremors haven't stopped yet—the antidote needs ninety seconds to fully counteract—and your hands are shaking against cold tile.

"You—" You choke on air. "You had no right—"

"You poisoned three glasses." His voice comes out level. Barely. There's something underneath now that isn't calm. "Yours. Mine. A Level 9 Commander's."

"I know what I did—"

"You ingested a lethal compound to maintain the appearance of safety so your actual targets would drink without suspicion."

"And it would have worked—"

"It would have killed you."

"THAT WAS THE POINT."

The words ring off tile. Echo. Settle like debris.

Silence.

Your breathing hasn't steadied. You're still shaking, still braced against the wall, the starweave catching bathroom light in patterns that make the fabric look like it's breathing with you.

"You detected it," you say. Hoarse. Accusatory. "How."

"My olfactory sensitivity operates at sub-molecular thresholds." He adjusts his cuff where your nails shredded fabric. Blood underneath. Minor. "The compound was elegant. It would have passed any standard Veyran detection."

"But not yours."

"No."

"And you drank it anyway." Your eyes narrow. "Both glasses. You drank both. That's—that's not possible. That dosage would flatline a fucking Grav."

"And yet."

You stare at him. Processing.

"You're immune," you whisper.

He says nothing. Which is confirmation enough.

"That's not—Valiskans aren't immune to—"

"I am."

"How?"

"Irrelevant to current situation."

"Irrelevant—you just swallowed enough synthetic alkaloid to kill six people and you're standing there adjusting your cuffs—"

"And you just attempted to assassinate yourself, your genetic match, and a Level 9 Consortium Commander at a formal dinner." His jaw shifts. "Did the last attempt teach you nothing? Or do you simply enjoy the repetition?"

Your laugh is raw. Wrecked. "What it taught me is that you keep surviving, and I keep having to find new ways to make sure you don't."

"Four attempts now. Zero successful. At what point does the data suggest a revised approach?"

"At the point where I stop breathing."

You push off the wall. Stand. The tremors have reduced to fine vibration in your fingers.

Antidote working.

"You want to know why?"

"Enlighten me."

"For the chance," you hiss. "That's what. For the one-in-a-hundred chance that your perfect fucking system missed something and you'd drop dead next to me. I'd take those odds every time, Warden. Every. Fucking. Time."

"Then you are going to run out of attempts," he says quietly, "long before I run out of patience."

"Good. I hope your patience tastes as bitter as that antidote."

"And I hope," he says, and his voice drops into something colder than protocol, "that you have an explanation for the spectacle you caused in that hall. Because what they saw was my match destabilizing a formal event. What Daltrey saw was leverage."

"Oh, so now you care about appearances—"

"I care about operational security, which you have now compromised for the fourth time in—"

"You dragged me into a bathroom—"

"Because you were dying—"

"I was handling it—"

"You were losing vestibular function and had approximately nine seconds before hepatic collapse." His hand hits the wall beside your head. Not a strike. A containment. "That is not handling it. That is suicide dressed as strategy."

Your chin jerks up. Defiant. That same angle you always default to when cornered—chin up, eyes blazing, throat exposed like a dare.

"Maybe that's the point," you snap. "Maybe I'd rather die on my terms than on yours."

"And maybe—" He leans forward. Closes the gap by an inch he shouldn't concede. "—you keep manufacturing these confrontations because you have know that hatred at this proximity with our compatibility does something you are not prepared to name."

Your pupils dilate for a fraction of a second before fury floods the space.

"Don't you dare—"

"Four assassination attempts. Each one requiring sustained aggression, elevated combat pheromones, extended physical proximity to me." His head tilts. "That's not tactical, Cipher. That's compulsive. You are engineering situations that force your body into arousal-adjacent states because confrontation is the only framework in which you'll permit yourself to—"

Your palm cracks across his face.

The sound bounces off tile. His head turns with the impact—controlled, absorbing the force rather than resisting it.

He stays turned for a second. Lets the sting register. Lets the heat bloom across his cheekbone.

Then he looks back at you.

"Interesting," he says.

"Shut up—"

"You could have aimed for the nose. The temple. The throat." His tongue traces the inside of his cheek, assessing damage. "You chose a slap. Open palm. Maximum sound, minimal damage."

"Next one won't be—"

"Next one won't happen."

His fingers wrap the column of your neck, thumb settling over the pulse point where your heartbeat hammers against his skin fast enough to constitute tactical intelligence.

You go still, your exhale hitting his mouth, his breathing disrupts the fall of your hair, the scent of bonfire ash and that stubborn sweetness underneath engulfs his lungs and suddenly he cannot breathe.

His blood runs hot. Hotter than protocol. Hotter than the calculated baseline he maintains through sheer architectural will.

Your combat pheromones are flooding the confined space.

His are answering.

“Du villst das,” he murmurs, and his voice has dropped past protocol, past Consortium diction, Altsprek scraping the edges of each syllable. “Willaikt sollte ik disem freken Mund geben, vorum er bettelt, und dik so hart fiken, dass du wergisst, vi man Gift miskt.” (You want this. Maybe I should give this insolent mouth what it’s begging for, and fuck you so hard you forget how to mix poison.)

You don't speak Altsprek.

He knows this. Has confirmed it through linguistic profiling.

But the guttural weight of consonants is a task your hindbrain processes without translation because it doesn't need translation.

Your tongue slides across your lower lip.

Slow. Unconscious. Wetting skin that's gone dry.

His gaze drops, inevitably, to your mouth. Slick where your tongue passed.

His hand tightens on your throat. Infinitesimal. A pulse of pressure that makes your breath stutter.

And he wants—

What he wants bypasses every filter, every protocol, every careful partition between operational logic and the catastrophic biology of what 100% compatibility actually means when you're breathing the same recycled air and his hand is on your throat and your pheromones taste like ignition.

He wants to close the distance. Press his mouth against yours. Swallow that sharp tongue whole and find out if you taste like poison and ash and all the things he should be immune to but—

Skaisse.

He releases your throat. Steps back. The motion is not smooth—it's a stagger, uncoordinated, his heel catching on tile as distance opens between his hand and your skin like a circuit breaking.

“Skaisse—vas tzum—” (Shit—what the—)

His hands link behind his back. Tight. Knuckles white.

You're staring at him from the wall. Throat still red from his grip. Lips still wet. Chest rising and falling in a rhythm that matches his exactly.

Synchronized breathing.

He hadn't noticed.

"We return to the hall," he says, too fast and clipped for his liking. "Immediately."

You open your mouth.

"Immediately."

He turns. Unlocks the door. Does not look back.

Because looking back would require acknowledging what just happened.

And what just happened does not fit within any operational parameter, any behavioral model, any system he has ever designed.

What just happened was a malfunction.

He counts his steps back to the corridor.

Ains. Tzvai. Drai. (One. Two. Three)

His pulse does not normalize until step forty-seven.

The walls breathe wrong in Valis Core.

Not literally—you're not that far gone yet, though give it another few days in this sterile coffin and check back.

But the sound-dampening technology embedded in every surface creates a silence so absolute it loops back around to noise. A pressure against your eardrums. The absence of sound so aggressive your brain fills the void with phantom echoes, and the phantom echoes sound a lot like heartbeats that aren't yours.

Your quarters. Level 7.

Containment dressed in furniture.

The lighting calibrates itself to your circadian rhythm whether you want it to or not. Somewhere behind those immaculate walls—behind the sound-dampening and the climate regulators and the carefully curated illusion of privacy—sensors log every shift in your body temperature, every spike in your heart rate, every microsecond of REM sleep.

You can feel them.

That's the part nobody talks about. The surveillance radiation. Faint enough that most Veyrans wouldn't register it, but you're not most Veyrans. Your Crester-adapted sensory system picks up the low-frequency emissions like a persistent itch behind your eyes. Like being stared at by something that doesn't blink.

Forty-seven minutes of pacing. Sleepwear that fits wrong—Valiskan cut, too loose at the shoulders, too tight at the hips. Nineteen degrees constant and your blood runs hot enough that the chill sits in your marrow like infection.

The comm unit crackles.

Shroud frequency. Encrypted. Your cipher pattern.

Static. Then—

"—visual confirmed, bearing south-southwest. Phantom sighted at former Blindfold approach, route six. Repeat, Phantom sighted—"

Your blood stops.

Taehyung.

Near Blindfold. Near your old command node, the one whose coordinates maybe seven people in the world have ever known. Three of them are dead.

Why the fuck would he surface there?

Unless he's looking for you.

Unless he's in trouble.

Unless he's already sold the grid and he's leading someone straight to—

Don't spiral. Think.

But thinking requires stillness and stillness requires safety and there is no safety in a room that documents your unconscious brain activity for Consortium research files.

You need out, you need out, you need out.

The window latch is biometric. You crack it in thirty seconds. The panel slides open and Valis Core's atmosphere hits your face—sterile, thin, that metallic ozone bite from the purification towers. High above, something winged scrapes along a spire and disappears into aurora glare before you can decide whether it's security hardware or something with teeth. Perfect. Even the fucking skyline has predators.

Three hundred meters below, the city sprawls in black spires and cold blue light.

You swing both legs over the sill, feet finding the decorative ridging on the facade—Valiskan architecture, all form and no function, but the ornamental grooves are deep enough if you distribute weight right.

One floor down. Fine. Your fingers know stone. Your body knows gravity. You've scaled the Hollow Crest shaft at Level 53 with Yoongi's explosives strapped to your back, Glowmice gone quiet in the walls, and felt nothing but annoyance at slippery handholds.

Two floors down.

Your stomach drops.

Not from height—physically drops, like gravity doubled beneath your ribcage. A wave of nausea so sudden it nearly pitches you forward into open air.

You grip the facade. Hold. Breathe.

What the fuck.

Three floors. The nausea deepens into something worse. Chest compression. Tightness behind your sternum that pulses outward like sonar hitting nothing. Your fingers shake against cold stone and the tremor isn't fatigue, it's something else.

Adrenaline. Has to be. You're free-climbing a building at Wane in your sleepwear. Body's just reacting.

Right.

Except you don't get nervous.

You don't.

Four floors and your vision blurs long enough that you miss a handhold and for one horrible suspended moment you're dangling by six fingers above several meters of nothing.

Move.

You move. Because moving is what you do. What you've always done. What Cresters are built for—quick, low, agile, navigating hostile architecture the way Valiskans navigate bureaucracy. Your body finds the service ledge at Level 2 by muscle memory you shouldn't have for a building you've been imprisoned in for days, but your brain mapped the schematics during a compatibility assessment while pretending to sleep.

The garden atrium opens below. Biodome bridging the Citadel's eastern wing to the Command Spires. Engineered groundcover. Root-soft, sterile, maintained at obscene cost so Consortium officials can perform reverence for living systems they only tolerate when controlled.

Your bare feet hit dew-soaked ground and the cold shocks through your soles. The nausea hasn't faded. Worse now. A building pressure behind your ribs that doesn't feel like sickness. Feels like—

Dread. Loss. Something being pulled from you that you didn't know was there.

Anxiety.

No. Shut the fuck up. You don't feel anxiety. Anxiety is for people who haven't survived everything that was supposed to kill them—

"Going somewhere?"

You spin.

He's at the garden's north entrance. Formal jacket unclasped at the collar, platinum hardware hanging loose. Hair half-fallen from the styled position, the white streak catching faint aurora light through the biodome panels.

And the nausea—

Stops. Gone. Like someone flipped a switch behind your sternum.

The compression, the dread, the shaking hands, the blurred vision—all of it draining away so fast it leaves you dizzy.

No.

No, that's not—you're not calmer because he's here. That's not how this works. That's not how you work.

(But the tremor in your fingers has stopped. And your breathing has evened. And the relief is so immediate and so total that it makes you want to vomit for entirely different reasons.)

His expression is not angry. It's worse.

It's done; the specific exhaustion of a man who has been tolerating a natural disaster for days and has reached the exact limit of what his patience can metabolize.

"How," you manage.

"The same way you found the garden." Flat. Clipped. "Biology. Which you would understand if you stopped trying to outrun it for five consecutive minutes."

"Taehyung was spotted—"

"I genuinely, deeply do not care."

"Near my old coordinates, near Blindfold—"

"Still do not care." He steps forward. "You are not leaving Valis Core tonight."

"Watch me."

You bolt.

The garden stretches thirty meters to the bridge—transparent walkway between the Citadel and the Spire, three hundred meters of glass above three hundred meters of nothing. Your bare feet tear across wet groundcover, pale pollinators lifting in irritated flickers around your ankles, and you are fast —Crester-fast, tunnel-runner fast, the kind of fast that's kept you alive since you were old enough to run from things bigger and meaner and better armed than you.

Valiskans don't chase. That's fundamental biology. Their frames are built for structure, control, sustained force—not explosive pursuit through uneven terrain. Every Consortium patrol you've ever outrun proved it. They lumber. They coordinate. They call for backup.

They don't sprint.

They definitely don’t sprint like Namjoon is doing right now.

What the fuck.

You hit the bridge at full speed, bare feet slapping transparent panels that show the cold blue nothing below. The walkway sways. You adjust without thinking, weight distribution shifting to compensate, every step calculated by the part of your brain that's been navigating unstable surfaces since childhood.

He's still gaining.

How.

You cut left, using the bridge's slight curve to force a wider pursuit angle. Crester tunnel doctrine—exploit geometry when you can't exploit speed.

His footsteps don't falter. Don't redirect. They anticipate the curve, cutting the angle before you complete it, and suddenly the distance between you is halving instead of holding.

Fifteen meters to the Spire entrance.

You pour everything into the last stretch—

And then the bridge purrs.

A low ringed pressure that hits your back teeth before your ears catch up to it, like a generator coughing awake under glass. You feel it in your sternum. In the soles of your feet. The kind of vibration your body recognizes as animal before your brain admits it's possible.

The fuck.

Movement.

Underneath you.

Through the transparent panels something pale streaks along the bridge's underside—long body, gripping limbs, a counterweight tail flicking once as it rotates around a structural rib and reappears on top of the walkway six meters ahead of you, perfectly silent, perfectly placed.

Oh you have got to be fucking kidding.

It's standing in your path.

Lean. Pale. Hide-fur threaded with something silver that catches aurora light in tiny conducting filaments along its flanks. Vestigial wing-membranes folded tight against its ribs like a coat someone forgot to take off. Wide-set pale eyes locked on your sternum—not your face, your center of mass, the way a thing built to tackle reads a body—and its head is low, neck stretched forward, ears flat against the skull in that particular way that means I want your scent, not your blood.

Yet.

Oranen.

The word surfaces before the rest of the memory does, and when the memory comes it comes stupid—

You were maybe four. Maybe five. Pre-camp. Pre-everything. Some Valis cousin's terrace before your parents got publicly disassembled and your sister got reclassified as a problem to manage. You'd seen one of these things curled along an ornamental rib like a cat on a windowsill, all silver-pale and slow-blinking, and you'd asked—small, stupid, with the absolute certainty of a child who hadn't yet learned the world ate things like her—can I pet it.

Every adult in earshot had stilled.

Not laughed. Not corrected. Stilled. The way grown-ups go quiet when a kid asks something that flags her as the wrong species of person. You remember a Valis aunt's mouth opening slightly. Some uncle's hand pausing halfway to his glass. The cousin's mother turning her head with the slow horror of someone watching a child reach for an exposed wire.

They're not pets, sweetheart.

Said in the tone people use for 'we don't ask why grandfather doesn't come down to dinner anymore.'

You'd thought, at four: they look like pets. They look soft. They look like something that would let me hold it. You'd been wrong about a lot of things that year.

You are wrong about this one too.

Because the thing standing on the bridge is not soft. It's holding its tail out perfectly horizontal, dead level with the walkway, and even at four years old in your stupid little hand-me-down boots you would have known—if you'd been looking properly—that an animal holding itself that still is not a pet. It's a decision that hasn't landed yet.

Soft. Sure. Soft like a fucking trap.

"Don't move," Namjoon says, behind you. Close. Closer than he was a second ago.

"Yeah no shit—"

"Do not move."

The Oranen's forepaws knead the glass. Once. Twice. Mineral claws extending and retracting, scoring tiny clean lines into the panel without cracking it—because of course they're calibrated for that, of course they are, of course Valis built itself a bridge animal that won't damage the bridge—

Its tail tip flicks.

Decision made.

You drop into stance on instinct, shifting weight onto the balls of your feet, calculating elbow-angle to throat, knee to sternum, anything—and you know, even as you're doing it, that none of it will work. Not because you can't fight an animal. You've fought worse animals. You've fought humans worse than animals. But this thing has been bred—generations of it, cycles of it—to do exactly this. Pin and hold. Score glass without cracking it. Take a fleeing target alive until a handler shows up.

A handler is behind you.

The Oranen's chest expands. The throat-vurr rises—sharper this time, an alert note instead of an identification one—and you can feel a second pressure starting to answer it from somewhere up the Spire facade, another colony-pair flanking in from above—

"Halt."

Namjoon doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't have to. The word lands wrong in the air—it's not the cadence he uses with you, not the cadence he uses with anyone, it's something pressure-shaped, throat-tight, severe in a way that makes the consonants feel like they were filed before they left his mouth.

Altsprek. The real version. The version he speaks when he's not condescending to your hybrid ear.

The Oranen freezes.

Not a slow freeze. Mid-step freeze. One forepaw still raised, claws still extended, throat-vurr cut off so cleanly it leaves a hum in the bridge that takes a second to fade. The second pressure from above stops climbing. Whatever was inbound just—stalled. Recategorized. Reset.

Your breath catches and you hate it.

Because the animal didn't stop for the word. You know that immediately. You grew up around enough trained killers to recognize the difference between an order being heard and an order being recognized. The Oranen heard pressure, throat-tension, native cadence, and probably a clearance scent his body throws off without trying—and decided he was the senior thing in this exchange.

The animal didn't obey Namjoon.

The animal deferred to him.

"Mein."

Softer. Single syllable. Same wrong-cadence Altsprek that your stupid hybrid throat could probably mimic but never make register.

The Oranen's ears come up half a degree. Tail goes from horizontal to angled-down. Head tilts, slow, almost—polite—and that's when you understand he's just told it ‘this one is mine, don't pin her, I've got her,’ and the animal accepted the override the way a guard dog accepts being called off by the only voice in the building it actually answers to.

Disgust hits you before the relief can.

Because—god, you'd forgotten this part. Forgotten how Valis Core does it. Forgotten that they didn't just build surveillance, they bred it, they sat down with something that used to live on cliffs and over generations they whittled it into a thing that would freeze when an elite cleared its throat right.

Drones don't have a choice. This one did. Its great-great-whatever decided heated roosts and mineral-oil grooming was worth more than open sky, and now its descendant is standing on a glass bridge declining to break your spine because a man behind you used the correct vowel.

Animals that bargained with the Consortium.

The animal steps back along the bridge. Two paces. Tail-tip flicks once, opposite direction this time, and the second pressure above you bleeds out of the facade like someone closing a valve.

You don’t turn around, but you can feel the specific quality of the silence he uses when he’s deciding whether to speak or just stand there until you do something stupid enough to settle the question for him.

He speaks.

“There is,” he says, and his voice has gone flat in a way that means he’s reached the section of his patience that runs on pure spite, “an aerosol dispenser in your bathroom.”

“What.”

“In your quarters. Wall-mounted. Above the basin.” A beat. “Standard Citadel issue.”

“I don’t—”

“If you had used it before climbing out a window in your sleepwear, the colony-pair currently deciding whether my override holds would have read you as cleared and ignored you entirely.”

You turn around.

Slowly.

Because the alternative is letting him deliver the rest of that sentence to the back of your head and you are not, not, giving him that.

He’s standing exactly where you knew he was standing. Collar still unclasped. Hair still half-fallen. The aurora light through the biodome panels above the bridge catches the white streak at his temple in a way that should be flattering and is, instead, exhausted. His arms are loose at his sides. His weight is on his back foot. His expression is the expression of a man explaining a basic safety protocol to someone who sets the building on fire every time she enters it.

“You’re telling me.” Your voice scrapes on the way out. “You’re telling me there’s a fucking can in my bathroom.”

“Yes.”

“That tells the colony-pair I’m not prey.”

“Yes.”

“And nobody mentioned this when they shoved me into Level 7—”

“Cipher.” His head tilts. “It is labeled.”

Heat sheets up your throat so fast your vision tunnels.

“It’s labeled in Altsprek, you condescending—”

“It is labeled in standard Consortium pictogram. Same as the climate panel. Same as the lighting calibrator. Same as every system in your quarters that you have, by your own admission, been refusing to engage with because you would rather pace a nineteen-degree room for three cycles than touch anything Valis built.” His hand rises. Drags down his face. “Which is, of course, your absolute right. Until it puts you on a glass bridge at Wane in your sleepwear with a colony-class interceptor calculating your bone density.”

“Oh, fuck you—”

“If you had been,” he says, voice dropping into the lethal-calm register that always means he has reached the bottom of his composure and started digging, “even marginally smarter about a flight you had already committed to attempting, you would have sprayed yourself before you went out the window. The pair would not have engaged. You’d have made it, what.” He tilts his head. Considers. “Three streets, perhaps. Maybe four if you’d kept to the service ridges and avoided the Threshold Gates. Though of course I would have caught you eventually.”

Your jaw locks.

“Of course.”

“Mm.” A small, exhausted nod. “But by your parameters, I imagine that still constitutes an improvement.”

“Oh, save it, you smug—” Your hand flicks at the bridge, the Oranen, the entire fucking architecture of him. “—condescending fucking piece of shit, you can’t even—you wouldn’t have caught me, that’s the funniest part, you absolute Valis-bred fossil, you couldn’t even keep me out of the Algorithm’s outer ring when you had seven layers of encryption and a ghost protocol riding it—”

“Cipher.”

“—and I was running it from a leaking utility panel in Hollow Crest with a stolen interface and one working hand because Yoongi’s fuse had snapped two hours earlier and my fingers were still numb, and I got three layers deep before your little vanity protocol noticed me, which by the way, who codes a vanity flag into a tier-one security architecture, that’s not security, that’s ego—”

“I am aware of how you breached the outer ring.”

“—you had to scrub the breach quietly because if your superiors had seen the actual logs you would have been demoted into a closet, and don’t think I didn’t notice you cleaned the entry vector and rewrote it instead of patching it, that’s not a fix, Warden, that’s vanity wearing a uniform—”

“I do not give a fuck.”

The bridge goes dead silent.

The Oranen’s ears flick.

“Did you—” Your voice cracks in a register that has never been used by you in your life. “Did you just curse?”

“Yes.”

“At me?!”

“Correct.”

“About the Algorithm breach?!”

“Cipher—”

“Stop using my fucking slang!”

“I figured,” he says, with the exact tonal flatness of a man defusing a piece of ordnance he has personally signed off on, “you’d understand me better if I used your lexicon.”

“OH FUCK YOU—”

He moves. You don’t even register the cross-step. One second three meters of bridge between you, the next his arm is hooking behind your knees and your back is hitting his chest and the world tilts sideways.

Bridal carry.

He’s fucking carrying you.

“Put me down—!”

"No."

"I will rip your throat out—!"

"You will try."

You thrash savagely. Elbows aimed at his jaw, knees kicking air, your whole body bucking against his grip like a trapped animal because that's what this is.

Captivity. Restraint.

Your fist cracks into his collarbone. He absorbs it. Keeps walking.

"I'm not a fucking doll—"

"Debatable, given the tantrum."

"That's not—I'm not having a tantrum, I'm fighting for my fucking life—"

"You're fighting the bridge. Poorly." He adjusts his grip. Practiced. Like he's carried feral things before. "And you're barefoot in sleepwear at three hundred meters elevation in Wane-deep cold. So forgive me if I deprioritize your dignity."

"Put me down, Warden." Your voice drops. Not screaming anymore.

The voice you use when you mean it—really mean it—and the difference must register because his stride changes.

"I don't like being carried." Each word scraped from somewhere deeper than anger. "I don't like being picked up and moved. I don't—"

Your jaw locks. Because what comes next is small and powerless and like the processing lines when they'd haul you by your arms and you are not giving him that.

Not ever.

Not any of it.

But he stops walking.

Stands there on the bridge, three hundred meters above nothing, with you rigid in his arms.

Then his grip shifts beneath your knees and your bare feet find glass.

You step back from him immediately. Put distance between your body and his. Try to pretend the shaking in your legs is cold and not residual proximity-whatever-the-fuck.

Silence. Aurora light shifting through the biodome above. Your breath fogging in the gap between you.

"I'm not going back to my quarters."

"That is not—"

"They watch me." The words rip out ragged. "Every breath. Every heartbeat. Every time I roll over in my sleep there's a sensor logging it. I can feel the surveillance radiation—Cresters can feel it, yeah? Sits behind my eyes like a migraine that never fucking stops."

His jaw shifts. Processing.

"I haven't slept," you continue, and you hate the sound of your own voice right now. Hate the rawness in it. "Not real sleep. Not once since they dragged me here. Because every time I close my eyes I can feel them documenting what my brain does unconscious and I can't—"

Stop.

Breathe.

"I want to stay at your quarters."

His hand rises. Presses against his forehead. Drags down his face with the particular slowness of a man counting internally to prevent homicide.

"Are you aware," he says, voice strained in a way you've never heard from him, "of how that sounds in my culture."

"I don't give a fuck about your cult—"

"You just propositioned a Commander in the middle of the garden."

Heat slaps into your cheeks. Immediate. Nuclear.

"What?"

His hand hasn't left his face.

"In Valis Core," he says from behind his palm, "when a matched partner requests shared quarters during Wane cycle—triff mich bei Wane—it carries a specific connotation. The connotation is not roommate arrangement."

"I didn't—that's not what I—"

"I'm aware."

"Then why are you making it weird—"

"I'm not making it weird. You made it weird. I am simply informing you that every surveillance microphone within range just recorded you asking your genetic match to bed you."

"I asked to sleep in a room without cameras—"

"Which contains one bed. Mine."

"—because your quarters are Command authority, they don't monitor you—"

"They will absolutely begin monitoring me if my matched partner moves into my quarters at Wane requesting shared sleeping arrangements."

"I'm not requesting—" You stop. Force your voice down. "Your room doesn't have surveillance radiation. That's it. That's the whole calculation. Couch. Floor. I don't care. I've slept on worse than your shitty Valiskan floor tiles."

He lowers his hand. Looks at you.

His gaze drops to your bare feet on the glass. To the goosebumps climbing your arms. To the way you're holding yourself like you'll fly apart if you loosen your grip on your own ribcage.

"If I formally request and authorize a transfer of your sleeping arrangements to my quarters," he says, and each word is measured, selected, placed with the care of someone defusing ordnance, "through official channels, with documented reasoning citing match-proximity optimization and subject wellness protocols—"

"Subject wellness," you repeat flatly.

"—you will not attempt to flee while I sleep."

Not a question. A condition. Terms being laid on the table the way he lays everything—squared, aligned, non-negotiable.

But he's offering.

He's not ordering you back to Level 7. He's not calling security.

He's standing on a bridge in the cold with his collar undone and his composure fraying at the seams, and he's negotiating.

"I won't attempt to flee while you sleep," you say.

"That is not what I asked." His eyes narrow. "Repetition is not agreement. I need explicit terms."

Fucking Valiskans.

"Fine. I will not attempt to flee. While you sleep. From your quarters. During the authorized Wane cycle. Happy?"

"Define flee."

"Oh, for fuck's—"

"You have attempted to kill me four times, attempted to poison a Level 9 Commander, escaped through a window in your sleepwear, and sprinted across a suspension bridge barefoot in sub-zero temperatures." He tilts his head. "Specificity is not unreasonable."

He's right. You hate that he's right. You hate that his version of right always sounds like a fucking legal deposition.

"I will not leave the physical perimeter of your quarters during Wane cycle without informing you first." You grit your teeth. "I will not sabotage your security systems, poison your food, or attempt to exit through windows, ventilation shafts, or any other structural opening. Is that specific enough for you?"

"And weapons."

"What about them."

"You will not bring concealed weapons into my quarters."

A beat. "I don't have any weapons."

His look could cut steel. "Cipher."

"Fine. No weapons."

"Including improvised ones."

"You want me to promise I won't sharpen your toothbrush into a shiv?"

"Yes."

"You're serious."

"I am always serious. That is something you should have established by now."

Your mouth opens. Closes.

Because he is serious. Dead serious.

Standing there with aurora light catching the white streak in his hair, asking you to formally promise not to weaponize his dental hygiene products.

This is your life now.

"No improvised weapons," you mutter. "No shivs. No garrotes made from bedsheets. No blunt force trauma via decorative objects. Satisfied?"

Something sits in the space between his brows where tension usually lives, and for one second—just one—it smooths.

"I will file the authorization tonight."

He says it without looking at you. Gaze fixed on the Spire entrance, jaw working through whatever internal protocol is screaming at him to do the opposite.

"Effective now. You sleep there tonight. The transfer will be documented as proximity-based wellness optimization per Epitaph Protocol 7.3."

Tonight.

Not next cycle. Not pending review. Not after seventeen layers of Consortium bureaucratic horseshit.

Now.

You open your mouth to say something cutting—something about how generous of him, how merciful, how very Consortium of him to grant basic fucking sleep like it's a reward for good behavior—

But nothing comes out.

Because your hands are still shaking. And your feet are numb. And you're standing on a glass bridge in your sleepwear at Wane-deep and he just... gave you the thing you asked for.

Without a fight. Without leverage. Without making you bleed for it first.

"I don't care what you call it," you manage.

"I know." He turns towards the building again. "That's why I'm telling you. So when you inevitably throw it in my face during an argument, you'll have the correct protocol number."

You stand on the bridge for three more seconds. Bare feet on cold glass. City glowing beneath you like something dying beautifully.

Then you follow.

Because—somewhere behind your ribs, in the space where the nausea used to sit—there's nothing.

Just the steady, unwelcome absence of pain that started the moment he appeared in that garden and hasn't left since.

next | index

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© jungkoode 2025

His fingers wrap the column of your neck, thumb settling over the pulse point where your heartbeat hammers against his skin fast enough to constitute tactical intelligence.

You go still, your exhale hitting his mouth, his breathing disrupts the fall of your hair, the scent of bonfire ash and that stubborn sweetness underneath engulfs his lungs and suddenly he cannot breathe.

His blood runs hot. Hotter than protocol. Hotter than the calculated baseline he maintains through sheer architectural will.

Your combat pheromones are flooding the confined space.

His are answering.

“Du villst das,” he murmurs, and his voice has dropped past protocol, past Consortium diction, Altsprek scraping the edges of each syllable. “Willaikt sollte ik disem freken Mund geben, vorum er bettelt, und dik so hart fiken, dass du wergisst, vi man Gift miskt.” (You want this. Maybe I should give this insolent mouth what it’s begging for, and fuck you so hard you forget how to mix poison.)

You don't speak Altsprek.

He knows this. Has confirmed it through linguistic profiling.

But the guttural weight of consonants is a task your hindbrain processes without translation because it doesn't need translation.

➜ Coming: Soon- <3

The stance is familiar. Weight distributed, hands loose but ready. You're calculating distance between his position and the exit. Mapping strike angles. Finding escape routes that don't exist.

He recognizes the assessment protocol because it mirrors his own.

Interesting.

The Algorithm chose efficiently.

"Good morning," he says, voice calibrated to establish dominance without triggering immediate violence. "I trust your accommodations proved adequate."

Your eyes narrow. Displeased, then.

"Adequate." You test the word like poison. "Is that your diplomatic way of asking if I slept well in my fucking cage?"

Crude emotional outlet. Designed to provoke reaction.

He, of course, doesn't provide one.

"Sleep quality affects operational performance. The monitoring period requires optimal efficiency from both participants."

Both participants. Partnership terminology. Deliberately deployed.

You tilt your head. Mimicking his own assessment gesture. Learning his patterns while displaying your own.

Clever.

"Optimal performance." Your mockery is accurate. "For what, exactly? Planning to lecture me to death?"

"Joint field operations commence immediately. Your infiltration capabilities require practical evaluation under controlled parameters."

He watches the information process. Surprise flickers across your features—quickly suppressed, but visible. You weren't expecting active deployment.

Good. Predictability breeds complacency.

"Field operations," you repeat. "Leaving this place."

"Temporarily. Under supervision."

Your posture shifts. Subtle. Professional.

Left foot angling slightly outward. Weight redistributing. Hands dropping to a more natural position that conceals preparation.

You're not just angry anymore. You're hunting. Most likely searching for an opportunity of escape.

How terribly mundane of you.

"What kind of operations?"

Your voice carries false curiosity. Buying time. Setting distance.

He should recognize the setup. Should anticipate—

The attack comes from nowhere.

No telegraph. No warning.

One moment you're standing three meters away, the next you're inside his guard with a blade materialized from absolute nothing.

Fast.

Faster than his file suggested.

The knife slices air where his throat was a split second before. He twists back, feeling steel part the air millimeters from his carotid. Close. Too close.

You don't pause. Don't recover. You flow into the next strike like water, blade spinning in your grip to reverse the angle, coming up toward his ribs in a motion that speaks of training far beyond rebel desperation.

Professional. Military grade.

Where did you learn this?

He blocks with his forearm, deflecting the strike but not stopping your momentum. You use the contact to pivot, already spinning into a leg sweep that would take him down if he hadn't—

Jumped. Minimal elevation. Just enough to let your leg pass underneath.

You're good. Better than good.

But not better than him.

You recover from the failed sweep by converting the spin into momentum for another knife strike. This one aimed at his kidney.

Lethal intent. No hesitation.

He catches your wrist mid-swing.

Your eyes widen. Not in surprise at being stopped—surprise at the speed of his counter.

Now he moves.

Still holding your knife hand, he uses your forward momentum against you. One step to the side, pulling you past your balance point.

You try to compensate with that twisting leg kick—beautiful technique, would have taken his knee out—

He blocks with his shin. Absorbs the impact. Redirects your energy.

Your other hand comes up, clawing for his eyes. He catches that wrist too.

For a moment you're locked together. Face to face. Close enough that he can see the gold flecks in your eyes. Close enough to smell the combat pheromones starting to flood the air between you.

Sharp. Electric. Dangerous.

Your pupils dilate. Not fear. Not fury.

Something else.

"Impressive," he says, voice steady despite the proximity, despite the scent spike. "But slow. The aurora cycles must be affecting your movements."

His expression doesn't change. Blank. Clinical.

But your eyes widen, and that tells him you caught the condescension.

"Fuck you," you snarl, trying to knee him in the groin.

He turns his hip, deflecting the strike. Uses the motion to redirect your momentum completely.

Forward.

Hard.

"Skaisse," the curse escapes him—rough, guttural—as he drives you into the wall with enough force to rattle your teeth.

The impact is immediate. Brutal.

Your chest slams against stone, breath driven from your lungs in a sharp exhale. Before you can recover, before you can even process the collision, steel presses against your throat.

The knife. Your knife. Now his.

Cold metal bites into heated skin.

His body brackets yours completely—legs on either side of your thighs, chest pressed to your back, one arm braced against the wall beside your head.

Trapped. Dominated.

His free hand hooks your jaw. Fingers spread along your cheek and neck, tilting your head back just enough to meet his gaze over your shoulder.

His eyes scan your face. Your pupils. Still dilated. Breathing pattern—rapid, shallow. Pulse visible at your throat, hammering against skin.

Fascinating physiological responses.

His thumb shifts slightly along your jawline. Just a millimeter. Nothing significant.

Except you react.

A sharp intake of breath. Involuntary. Your pulse spikes visibly where his fingers rest near your ear.

Interesting.

His gaze drops to where his hand cradles your jaw. The pressure point behind your right ear—completely exposed, practically throbbing under his fingertips.

The way you flinched when he moved. The immediate tension that followed.

Recognition flickers in his mind.

A triplet marker.

One of three neurological weak points every trained operative learns to identify and protect.

You've left at least one completely unguarded.

"For such an excellent fighter," he murmurs, voice low and measured, "you seem remarkably careless with your defensive positioning."

Your breath catches.

Understanding flashes across your features.

He doesn't know your full configuration. But he knows enough.

Amateur.

You jerk your head away from his grip, trying to break the contact. But his fingers tighten immediately. Not painful. Just inescapable, as intended. Steel wrapped in flesh.

"Impressive technique," he continues, pressing the blade more firmly against your throat. "But exploitable vulnerabilities. Any competent operative would have noticed by now."

You struggle against his hold. Test the restraint. Search for weakness.

There isn't any.

"Lesson one," he says, bringing the blade up to rest more firmly against your throat. "I've been trained in combat since before you were even alive."

The knife doesn't waver. Neither does his grip.

"Let me go," you breathe, but there's no plea in it.

Just calculation. You're still looking for an angle.

"No."

His chest presses against your back. He can feel your heart hammering. Can smell the spike in your scent—that sharp, electric combination of adrenaline and—

Combat pheromones. Standard stress response.

"You fight well," he observes. "Better than your file indicated. Where did you receive training?"

You don't answer. Just breathe hard against the wall, muscles tense but not panicked.

Interesting. Most people would be breaking down by now.

"No response?" He adjusts his grip on your jaw. "Perhaps you need time to consider cooperation."

"Perhaps you need to get fucked."

The profanity vibrates against the blade. Defiant to the end.

He finds this… stimulating.

Your refusal to submit creates an optimization problem. A puzzle requiring solution.

How peculiar.

"Cooperation would be more efficient," he says. "Resistance only prolongs inevitable outcomes."

"Inevitable." You test the word. "Like you getting shanked in your sleep?"

"Unlikely. You'll be monitored continuously."

"Continuously?"

Something in your voice shifts. Not fear. Recognition, perhaps finally understanding the scope of your situation. The complete loss of privacy. The knowledge that every breath, every heartbeat, every moment of weakness will be documented.

"Welcome to the Epitaph Program," he says. "Sixty days of comprehensive observation. Cooperation ensures… comfort levels remain tolerable."

The threat hangs between you. Implicit but clear.

He releases your jaw but keeps the knife steady. Tests your reaction.

You don't move. Don't try to escape.

Smart.

"Are you prepared to proceed with mission briefing," he asks, "or do you require additional conditioning?"

Silence. Then:

"Mission briefing."

Good. Progress.

He steps back, lowering the blade but maintaining defensive positioning.

You turn around slowly, back against the wall, watching him with new wariness.

The air still carries that charge. That scent. Combat pheromones that haven't dissipated despite the conclusion of violence.

Curious.

Most stress responses fade quickly once threat neutralization occurs. But yours seems to be… intensifying.

As does his own.

Purely physiological. Adrenaline requires time to metabolize. Nothing more complex than biochemistry.

"Follow me," he says, returning your knife to his belt.

A confiscation that doubles as a reminder of capability differential.

You push off from the wall, rolling your shoulders. Testing for damage. Finding none.

Then you follow him toward the briefing room. Maintaining careful distance. Close enough for communication. Far enough to avoid sudden contact.

But the strange entry remains, humming low like the beasts on the Verge Wastes. That resonance pattern his sensors can't classify.

Further investigation required. Document the phenomenon. Understand tactical implications.

For the Algorithm's analysis, naturally.

Nothing personal.

The transport to the Central Efficiency Boulevard takes twelve minutes through the Citadel's internal transit system.

Sealed corridors, regulated atmosphere, no external views.

You sit across from him in the passenger compartment, cataloging everything. Emergency releases. Ventilation systems. Structural weak points.

Still planning escape routes even while compliance appears complete.

Predictable. But admirable in its consistency.

The transport halts smoothly, and the passenger door slides open to reveal Valis Core's beating commercial heart.

The sight hits you immediately.

Sound first—thousands of voices creating a low hum of regulated conversation; the rhythmic pulse of scanning stations and allocation terminals processing endless queues of citizens.

Then the scale.

The Central Efficiency Boulevard stretches ahead like a canyon of black stone and gleaming metal, rising in terraced levels that disappear into aurora-filtered light. Suspended walkways create layers of foot traffic moving in perfectly regulated streams.

He watches your reaction. Measures the way your eyes widen despite obvious attempts at control.

"Welcome to functional society," he says, stepping onto the Boulevard.

In here, citizens move in predictable patterns—efficient foot traffic, minimal congestion.

Absolute standard procedure.

What isn't standard is the way conversations pause when you pass.

Namjoon catalogs the disruption. Valis Core citizens glancing sideways. Merchants hesitating mid-transaction. Children stopping to stare before their parents pull them along.

Curiosity. Or threat assessment. Both, perhaps.

You notice too. Shoulders tensing incrementally. Defensive posture activating despite the absence of immediate danger.

"They're staring," you mutter, voice low but audible.

He processes your discomfort. Files it.

"They are observing," he corrects. "Curiosity regarding your presence here."

Your laugh carries no humor. "Curiosity. Right. Nice way of saying they're side-eyeing me like I'm contaminated."

Side-eyeing. Another colloquialism absent from his linguistic databases.

Your phrasing patterns continue demonstrating gaps in his understanding of rebel vernacular.

Problematic. Communication efficiency requires comprehensive language mapping.

He turns slightly, studying your expression. "Clarification required."

"What?"

"The term. Side-eyeing."

You stop walking. Actually stop. Citizens flow around you both like water around stones, maintaining distance from his authority radius.

"Are you serious right now?"

He waits. Blinks slowly. Explanation pending.

"Side-eye means…" You gesture vaguely. "Looking at someone with suspicion. Judgment. Like they're doing something wrong just by existing."

Interesting. Facial expression terminology with embedded social context. He files the definition for future reference.

"The great Commander doesn't know basic slang," you continue, something sharp creeping into your voice. "Does that bother you?"

Bother. Emotional terminology suggesting personal investment in knowledge gaps.

"I require comprehensive communication protocols," he says. "Unknown variables reduce operational efficiency."

"So yes, it bothers you."

"Incorrect. I am identifying areas requiring data acquisition."

"Which means it bothers you."

"It means I am optimizing communication parameters."

"Same thing."

"It is not the same thing."

You tilt your head, mimicking his own assessment gesture. "You're getting defensive about being bothered by not knowing something. So, essentially, you're bothered."

"I am not defensive nor bothered."

"You just corrected me twice in thirty seconds."

He processes this. Reviews the conversation log. Identifies the pattern.

"Precision in communication serves tactical purposes."

"Tactical purposes." Your voice carries mockery now. "Right. Because God forbid the great Commander admits something annoys him."

Annoys. Another emotional designation he doesn't—

"It doesn't annoy me."

The words emerge too quickly. Too sharp.

You smile.

"There it is."

"There is nothing."

"You're bothered that you don't know rebel slang. You're bothered that I know something you don't."

"Your linguistic knowledge represents data I require for operational efficiency. Nothing more."

"Which bothers you."

Circular logic. Deliberately deployed to elicit emotional response.

He will not provide one.

"Irrelevant," he states. "Continue walking."

But you don't move. Just stand there with that sharp smile, cataloging his reaction patterns.

Learning his weaknesses.

A merchant nearby—Valis Core, purple hair indicating metallurgy specialist—drops a tool when Namjoon's gaze passes over their stall. The clatter echoes.

Your attention follows his. "See? Side-eye."

He observes the merchant more carefully. Elevated heartrate visible in neck pulse. Hands trembling slightly. Eyes avoiding direct contact.

"They are not expressing suspicion," he says. "They are demonstrating deference to authority. Standard protocol when Authority Level 7 personnel are present."

"Level 7?" Your voice shifts. Interest replacing mockery. "I thought you'd be higher."

The observation lands precisely where it was aimed.

Level 7 isn't low. It represents significant achievement within Consortium hierarchy.

"Level 7 is quite high," he states, voice flattening.

"Quite low for someone with your reputation."

Your tone carries calculated dismissal. Designed to provoke.

"I am Level 7 with supreme authority over the Epitaph System," he corrects, something sharp threading through his tone. "My clearance supersedes standard hierarchical limitations regarding species survival protocols."

"If you say so."

The casual dismissal triggers something deeper. Irritation crystallizing into something colder.

"Level 10 Council members cannot override my decisions regarding Transference procedures," he continues, voice dropping. "The Epitaph Program operates under my exclusive jurisdiction."

"Sure. Very impressive."

Your mockery remains unchanged. As if his specialized authority means nothing. As if the power structure he's carved out through years of strategic positioning is irrelevant.

Which, clearly, means you simply don't understand the implications of what you're dismissing.

So he will educate you.

"My authority regarding the Algorithm is absolute," he states. "Council oversight is limited to resource allocation. Operational control belongs to me."

"Are you trying to convince me or yourself?"

Now he processes the tactical objective differently.

You're testing his authority. Measuring the extent of his control.

Smart. You need to understand the parameters of your situation.

"I am clarifying the scope of authority you will be operating under for the next sixty days."

Your posture shifts. Subtle recognition of threat.

"Perhaps proximity will improve your attitude regarding appropriate deference protocols."

The words emerge as a statement of fact rather than threat.

But your reaction suggests you understand the implication.

Sixty days of his direct oversight. His rules. His authority.

Your choices: cooperation or consequences.

You stay silent after that. Walk behind him as he moves through the Boulevard, and he is most certain you are still attempting to find ways to turn this to your advantage.

Foolish, but admirable.

The primary Distribution Hub processes a constant stream of individuals receiving their assigned goods—scanning biometric chips, dispensing ration cubes, efficiency tools, and personal items based on productivity metrics.

Children move in supervised groups between educational facilities. Authority Level 4 supervisors guide them past the Productivity Reward Stations where higher-performing citizens access luxury items—actual flavored foods, personal decoration allowances, recreational materials.

The Equipment Dispensaries have workers receiving tool updates and uniform modifications. Allocation Supervisors stand behind scanning stations, their enhanced eyes analyzing each citizen's productivity metrics before dispensing goods.

It does not escape him, how your trained eye identifies the underground commerce.

Information traders lingering near public terminals. Favor brokers—mid-level officials discreetly arranging better allocations in exchange for services. Memory merchants operating from building alcoves, offering illegal identity modifications.

"Authority fear isn't the same as curiosity," you observe after several minutes of movement through the crowds.

He glances back at you. Notes you are circling back to the conversation about the so-called 'side-eyes' you were receiving.

Valid point. He recalculates.

The stares aren't uniform. Younger citizens show genuine fascination. Older ones display wariness. Children exhibit undisguised interest before parental intervention.

"Multiple response patterns," he replies after a few seconds. "But the primary driver is genetic variance recognition."

"Meaning?"

"Citadel populations are predominantly Valis Core. Interspecies contact remains limited despite policy allowances."

A pause. Processing.

"You're saying they're staring because I'm different."

"Because you represent genetic diversity they rarely encounter in this sector."

Your stride shortens. Subtle defensive behavior.

"Valis Core citizens aren't accustomed to observing mixed heritage individuals," he says. "Your parameters differ from sector norms."

You stop again. Completely.

Citizens adjust their paths, creating a small clearance zone.

"What do you mean by 'mixed heritage'?"

He blinks, a tad startled at your direct questioning. Odd questioning.

Is it not obvious?

"Your genetic markers indicate partial Valis Core ancestry. Approximately fifty percent. The remaining heritage appears Hollow Crest based on dermal characteristics and bone density indicators."

Your face changes. Guarded becomes hostile.

"How would you know that?"

"Standard biological assessment protocols. Skin reflectivity patterns, facial structure analysis, movement efficiency calculations. The hybrid characteristics are evident to trained observation."

"Trained observation." Your voice flattens dangerously. "You mean profiling."

"I mean accurate genetic classification."

A child—perhaps eight years old—breaks away from their parent to approach. Valis Core features but with curiosity overriding social conditioning.

"Are you from the outer sectors?" they ask you directly.

Before you can respond, the parent appears. Face flushed, clearly horrified by the breach of protocol.

"Commander, forgive the interruption—"

Namjoon raises a hand. Minimal gesture. Maximum authority.

"No breach of protocol occurred."

The parent relaxes incrementally. The child continues staring at you with open fascination.

"Your skin changes colors," the child observes. "Are those markings functional?"

You glance down at your forearms where subtle chromatophore patterns shift under stress. Barely visible, but the child's observation skills are acute.

"They're adaptive," you say carefully.

"Environmental adaptation," Namjoon clarifies for the child's benefit. "Acquired trait from extended Mournwell Basin exposure. Unusual in hybrid genetics."

The parent's eyes widen. Not disapproval—interest.

"How fascinating. Hybrid genetics are quite rare in the Core. The adaptive capabilities must be remarkable."

"We have appointments to maintain," Namjoon interrupts.

Social interaction efficiency has limits.

The parent nods, collecting their child. But the expression remains intrigued rather than dismissive.

After they leave, you stare at him.

"They weren't horrified."

"As I said."

The stares seem to make more sense to you now. Not suspicion. Genuine curiosity about biological variance they rarely encounter.

"But if they knew I was rebel—"

"They would respond differently," he acknowledges. "Rebellion represents ideological contamination. Genetic diversity represents biological advancement."

He observes how you process this distinction. The way hybrid status grants curiosity while political status would generate hostility.

"Convenient that they don't know."

"Indeed."

"And what exactly does my 'genetic classification' matter to anyone?"

The question contains multiple layers.

Surface inquiry about social relevance. Deeper concern about discrimination protocols. Underlying anger about genetic monitoring systems.

He addresses the practical component.

"Valis Core social structures don't discriminate against interspecies heritage. Hybrid genetics are considered beneficial for population stability."

"Beneficial how?"

"Genetic diversity reduces mutation accumulation. Cross-species reproduction produces offspring with enhanced adaptive capabilities. Improved disease resistance. Broader environmental tolerance ranges."

Your expression shifts. Surprise replacing hostility.

"You're saying mixing species is good."

"Scientifically optimal, yes. The Consortium actively encourages genetic diversification through managed reproduction programs."

"Then why don't more Valis Core people marry outside their species?"

Valid observation. He considers the behavioral patterns.

"Cultural preference for familiar social frameworks. Valis Core social structures emphasize systematic approaches to relationship formation. Most find comfort in predictable partner compatibility."

"Rigid thinking."

"Efficient compatibility assessment."

You snort. "Same thing."

It isn't.

But the distinction appears irrelevant to your worldview.

"The fact remains unchanged. Hybridness is viewed as positive amongst Valis. Our offspring would represent particularly advantageous genetic combinations. Enhanced cognitive function from Valis Core heritage combined with environmental resilience from Hollow Crest adaptation. The theoretical capabilities would be—"

"Our what?"

Your voice cuts through his analysis. Sharp. Dangerous.

He processes your tone. Elevated stress markers. Aggressive posture shift.

"Our hypothetical offspring," he clarifies. "Based on genetic compatibility analysis."

"Our offspring." You repeat the words like they taste poisonous. "You're talking about us. Having children. Together."

"I am explaining theoretical genetic optimization outcomes based on—"

"I would rather slit your throat and then throw myself off the Citadel than have your children."

The vehemence surprises him. Most citizens express enthusiasm about contributing to genetic optimization programs.

"Your personal preferences are irrelevant," he states. "The genetic benefits to society would be considerable regardless of individual opinion."

Something shifts in your posture. Coiling. Dangerous.

"Individual opinion."

"Optimal reproductive outcomes serve collective survival priorities."

Your hand drops toward where your knife was. Still reaching for confiscated weapons.

"Is that the plan?" Your voice drops to something lethal. "Sixty days of observation and then they strap me down and—"

"No."

The word is immediate.

He sees you freeze. Hand still positioned for a weapon draw that won't succeed.

He processes your reaction pattern. The immediate jump to coercion. The assumption of bodily violation.

What experiences shaped such expectations?

"Reproductive autonomy remains absolute under Consortium law," he clarifies. "No individual is required to participate in biological reproduction against their will."

You stare at him. "What?"

"The Consortium maintains advanced reproductive technologies. Genetic material can be combined through laboratory processes without requiring physical reproduction."

Your shoulders drop slightly. Combat readiness decreasing.

"Body autonomy remains inviolate," he continues. "Valis Core social development prioritizes consent in all intimate contexts."

Relief flickers across your features. Then hardens again.

"Except where the Epitaph Algorithm is concerned."

Accurate assessment.

The Algorithm does override individual choice regarding Transference participation.

"That serves species survival. Different parameters."

"How convenient." Your voice carries acid. "And what about the aurora bands? The heat cycles?"

He processes the shift. Unexpected tactical pivot.

"Clarification required."

"Don't play stupid with me, Commander. You know exactly what happens when the violet bands hit and biology takes over—where's the consent then?"

Aurora-induced heat cycles. Reproductive imperative overrides.

Hm.

A valid concern regarding Consortium control mechanisms.

"Heat cycles represent biological intensification, not autonomy elimination."

"Bullshit." You step closer, aggressive posture returning. "Rut cycles. Heat cycles. When biology kicks in and rational thought gets complicated."

"Biological intensification does not equate to consent elimination," he states. "Enhanced drive does not remove choice."

"Enhanced drive." Your laugh cuts sharp. "That what you call it when people fuck strangers because they can't think past the need?"

"I call it temporary prioritization of reproductive impulses while maintaining agency over partner selection and participation parameters."

You stare at him. "You're really going to stand there and tell me people consent during heat cycles?"

"I am stating that biological imperative amplifies existing desire without removing the capacity for decision-making. Individuals retain choice regarding participation, partners, and boundaries."

He processes his own experiences.

The elevated aggression. The singular focus on breeding compatibility. The way rational analysis shifted to accommodate reproductive priorities.

But never absent. Never eliminated.

"The neurochemical changes intensify specific responses," he continues. "They do not override cognitive function. Enhanced want does not constitute absence of will."

"Even when they're desperate enough to make choices they'd normally never consider?"

"Especially then. Desperation requires conscious acknowledgment of need and deliberate action to address it."

"You sound like you've given this considerable thought."

He has. Clinical analysis of his own rutting behaviors. Documentation of decision-making processes during biological peak periods.

"Personal experience provides relevant data."

"Personal experience." Something shifts in your expression. "Right. How many people have you fucked during rut cycles, Commander?"

The question contains tactical probing. Seeking vulnerability data through intimate details.

"Partner quantity is irrelevant to the consent framework discussion."

"But you have. Had partners during cycles."

"Yes."

"And you maintained perfect rational decision-making the entire time?"

"Rational frameworks adapt to biological priorities. Decision-making remains functional within modified parameters."

"Modified parameters." You test the phrase. "Meaning you wanted to fuck so badly you'd have taken anyone available."

"Negative. Biological enhancement cannot create attraction where none exists. It can only amplify existing compatibility markers."

You cross your arms again. "And if someone's compatibility markers are… inconvenient?"

"Then enhanced biological states create discomfort, not compulsion. The science is clear."

"How convenient that your science supports your moral boundaries."

"Accurate science reflects observable reality. Biological drives amplify potential. They do not manufacture it."

He sees you are about to respond when a priority communication activates through his neural interface.

Command-level authorization. Immediate briefing required.

"Change of plans," he says, altering course toward the administrative transit station. "Priority briefing requires immediate attention."

"What kind of priority?"

"The kind that determines our first joint operation parameters."

Your expression shifts. Recognition that the abstract concept of shared missions is about to become concrete reality.

As you move through the crowds toward the transport station, citizens continue their subtle observations. Curiosity about genetic diversity mixed with deference to his authority.

But you're no longer paying attention to their stares. Your focus has shifted to tactical assessment—processing the environment, cataloging resources, identifying potential advantages.

The transition from civilian observation to operational preparation.

Smart.

Because whatever briefing awaits will likely determine whether your first mission together becomes cooperation or warfare.

He suspects the latter.

The briefing chamber operates under Level 8 security protocols. Reinforced walls. Signal dampening. Personnel restricted to essential command staff only.

You enter behind him, positioning yourself near the exit.

Strategic placement.

He catalogs this behavior—always mapping escape routes, even in seemingly secure environments.

The intelligence officer approaches. Valis Core, specialized reconnaissance division. Stress markers visible in posture, elevated respiratory rate.

Bad news, then.

"Commander," the officer begins, then hesitates, glancing toward you.

"Proceed," Namjoon states. "She has clearance for this briefing."

Not entirely accurate. But operational parameters require your presence for proximity monitoring. Security concerns secondary to Algorithm requirements.

"Sir, Priority Target J-7 has vanished."

Namjoon processes this. Reviews available data. Priority Target designation suggests high-value asset.

Classification level: restricted.

"Clarification required. Vanished how?"

"Subject was being transported from containment to advanced research facility. Armored convoy, triple security protocols. When the transport arrived at destination, the containment unit was empty."

You shift behind him. Subtle positioning change. Intelligence gathering through observation.

"Sealed?" Namjoon inquires.

"Completely sealed, sir. Undamaged. Biometric locks intact. Life-sign monitoring showed no anomalies during transit. But when the unit opened…" The officer spreads empty hands. "Nothing."

Impossible. Transport containers operate under continuous surveillance. Molecular-level breach detection. Emergency beacon activation for any system compromise.

"Describe the containment specifications."

"Triple-hull construction. Quantum lock mechanisms. Atmospheric control independent of external systems. Subject would require specialized tools and external assistance to achieve breach."

The officer pauses. Glances toward you again.

Security concern. Your presence during classified briefing creates operational complications.

The chamber door slides open. Two figures enter—Authority insignia indicating higher command presence.

Namjoon straightens. Recognition protocols activate.

Director Kang Yura. Level 8 Authority. Research Division oversight. Sharp features, silver-streaked black hair, cybernetic enhancement visible along her left temple.

Behind her: Marshal Choi Daesung. Level 9 Authority. Strategic Operations Command. Massive frame, scarred hands, patched eye.

The intelligence officer steps back. Deference to superior authority.

"Commander Kim," Director Kang states. "Your presence is required for Priority Classification briefing."

Marshal Choi's gaze settles on you.

Assessment. Threat evaluation.

"The proximity asset," he observes, then switches immediately. "Interessanter Tzeitpunkt" (Interesting timing.)

Proximity asset.

Clinical designation that reduces you to operational utility.

You don't react visibly to the language shift. But Namjoon catches the subtle tension—you understand you're being discussed in a language deliberately excluding you.

"Sirs," Namjoon acknowledges. "Briefing in progress regarding Priority Target J-7 containment failure."

"Nikt Aindemmungswersagen," Director Kang corrects sharply. "Evolutionere Veiterentviklung iber ervartete Parameter hinaus." (Not containment failure. Evolutionary advancement beyond anticipated parameters.)

Altsprek it is, then.

"Prätzisirung erforderlik." (Clarification required.)

Marshal Choi steps forward. "Subjekt J-7 nahm vor seks Monaten an freivilligem Werbesserungsprogramm teil. Mournwell Basin Herkunft. Agrarvissenskaftler Betzeikhnung wor Modifikation." (Subject J-7 participated in voluntary enhancement program six months ago. Mournwell Basin origins. Agricultural scientist designation before modification.)

You shift. Mournwell Basin mentioned. But the rest remains incomprehensible.

"Werbesserungsspetzifikationen?" (Enhancement specifications?)

"Klassifitzirt Level 9," Marshal Choi states. "Aber relewante Details umfassen: tzellulare Anpassungsfehikkeiten, Umveltresistenz-Optimirung, werbesserte Iberlebensparameter." (Classified Level 9. But relevant details include: cellular adaptation capabilities, environmental resistance optimization, enhanced survival parameters.)

He glances at you deliberately. "Subjekt demonstrirt Fehikkeiten, di bestimte… Rebellenfraktionen interessiren kennten." (Subject demonstrates capabilities that may interest certain… rebel factions.)

Your posture tightens.

Understanding the tone if not the words.

Perceptive.

"Di Modifikationen varen erfolglaiker als prognostitzirt," Director Kang continues. "Subjekts Biologi begann sik auf Vaisen antzupassen, di nikt in urspringliken Werbesserungsprotokollen enthalten varen." (The modifications succeeded beyond projected parameters. Subject's biology began adapting in ways not included in original enhancement protocols.)

"Anpassung vi?" (Adapting how?)

"Strukturelle Werenederungen. Sensoriske Werbesserung. Stoffvekseleffitzienz-Werbesserungen." (Structural alterations. Sensory enhancement. Metabolic efficiency improvements.)

The intelligence officer clears his throat. "Sirs, di tzelluleren Scans des Subjekts aus der letzten Aindemmung tzaikten Anomalien. Gevebeproben enthillten molekulare Strukturen ausserhalb bekannter biologisker Rahmen." (Sirs, subject's cellular scans from final containment showed anomalies. Tissue samples revealed molecular structures outside known biological frameworks.)

"Ausserhalb vi?" (Outside how?)

"Kvantenebene Organisationsmuster. Tzellulare Netzverke kommunitziren durk Mekanismen, di bekannte Physik werletzen." (Quantum-level organizational patterns. Cellular networks communicating through mechanisms that violate known physics.)

Namjoon processes this.

Enhancement programs typically improve existing capabilities. They don't create impossible biological functions.

"Vas var das Werbesserungsziel?" (What was the enhancement objective?)

Marshal Choi exchanges a glance with Director Kang. "Adaptive Iberlebensoptimirung fir faindselige Umgebungen. Spetzifisk: Verge-Territorium-Navigationsfehikkeiten." (Adaptive survival optimization for hostile environments. Specifically: Verge territory navigation capabilities.)

"Varum?" (Why?)

"Klassifitzirt." (Classified.)

"Aktuelle Fehikkaiten des Subjekts?" (Subject's current capabilities?)

"Unbekannt. Abskliessende Bewertung doitete auf Potenzial fir Materi-Phasen-Manipulation hin. Molekulare Diktewerenederung. Meglikervaise Raum-Tzeit-Interaktionsmodifikationen." (Unknown. Final assessment indicated potential for matter-phase manipulation. Molecular density alteration. Possibly space-time interaction modifications.)

Director Kang activates a holographic display. Security footage appears—transport container interior.

The recording shows a figure. Humanoid. Standard proportions. Sitting calmly in the containment unit.

Then the figure begins… shifting.

Edges becoming less defined. Molecular coherence appearing to fluctuate.

The image distorts. Static interference.

When clarity returns, the container is empty.

"Skaisse," Namjoon breathes.

You catch that.

Curse words have a tendency to transcend language barriers.

"Tatseklik," Marshal Choi states. "ubjekt skainet in der Lage tzu sain, fundamentale molekulare Kohesion tzu werendern." (Indeed. Subject appears capable of altering fundamental molecular cohesion.)

"Vo ist er jetzt?" (Where is he now?)

"Unbekannt. Aber Aufklerung doitet auf Bevegung in Riktung Hollow Crest Territorien hin." (Unknown. But intelligence suggests movement toward Hollow Crest territories.)

Director Kang deactivates the holographic display, then turns to address you directly in Consensus.

"Your familiarity with regional territories may prove tactically relevant."

The sudden shift back to your language feels jarring.

Intentional exclusion followed by intentional inclusion.

"Relevant how?"

Marshal Choi studies you. "Enhanced assets seeking sanctuary typically utilize known safe passage routes."

"You think someone escaped."

"We know someone escaped. Question is whether certain factions provided assistance."

Your expression hardens. "And you want me to help track them down."

"We want you to provide regional intelligence," Director Kang corrects.

"Mission parameters," she continues to Namjoon. "Gemainsame Aufklerungsoperation. Si biten strategiske Aufsikt. Nehe-Asset bitet regionale Aufklerung." (Joint reconnaissance operation. You provide strategic oversight. Proximity asset provides regional intelligence.)

Back to Altsprek. Excluding you again.

"Tzeitplan?" (Timeline?)

"Sofortiger Ainsatz. Di Fehikkeiten von Subjekt J-7 maken ervaiterte Fraiheit unadvisable." (Immediate deployment. Subject J-7's capabilities make extended freedom inadvisable.)

"Bedrohungsainsketzung?" (Threat assessment?)

"Unbekannte Wariablen," Marshal Choi admits. "Werbesserungsprogramme skaffen unworsagbare Ergebnisse, venn Subjekte projitzirte Parameter iberskreiten." (Unknown variables. Enhancement programs create unpredictable outcomes when subjects exceed projected parameters.)

"Vas var sain urspringliker Name?" (What was his original name?)

You step forward suddenly. "What are you discussing?"

The question cuts through their Altsprek conversation.

Direct challenge to the exclusion.

Marshal Choi switches back to Consensus. "Operational parameters."

"I'm part of this operation. I should understand what I'm walking into."

Director Kang's cybernetic implant flickers. Processing. "You will receive necessary tactical information during deployment preparation."

"Necessary according to who?"

"According to authority classification."

Your jaw tightens. Understanding the power dynamic.

Information as control mechanism.

Namjoon observes this exchange. Your frustration at exclusion. Their deliberate information restriction.

"She requires basic operational parameters," he states carefully.

Marshal Choi nods. "Recovery mission. High-value target. Regional reconnaissance required."

Minimal information. Sufficient for cooperation without revealing classified details.

"And if the target doesn't want to be recovered?"

"Target cooperation is not required."

Cold, brutal statement. Standard Consortium approach.

"Follow me," Namjoon states, reading the room.

Time to extract you before additional complications develop.

You don't move immediately, however.

"When do I get full briefing details?"

"Si verden si nikt," Marshal Choi states quietly. (You won't.)

The Altsprek comment wasn't meant for you to understand.

But he knows you recognize the tone, the exclusion, the dismissal.

"What exactly am I walking into?" you ask again.

"Recovery operation," Namjoon repeats. "Subject escaped transport. Regional knowledge required for location assessment."

Minimal truth.

"Follow," he states more urgently.

This time you comply. But tension radiates from your posture.

As you exit the briefing chamber, Marshal Choi's voice follows in Altsprek.

"Kommandant. Wersagen ist nikt aktzeptabel. Werbesserte Assets kennen nikt unibervakt blaiben." (Commander. Failure is not acceptable. Enhanced assets cannot remain unsupervised.)

Understanding. Success required. Or consequences would extend beyond mission parameters.

Field deployment begins in one hour.

Time to discover what happens when your knowledge becomes essential to Consortium operations. While being systematically excluded from understanding why.

next | index

— taglist @cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap  @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @dltyum @dailynnt @sashakittyct @bjoriis @hemmosfear 

© jungkoode 2025

You pace the cramped confines of the abandoned medical outpost. Three steps. Wall. Three steps. Wall. The ceiling leaks something dark that's not quite water, hitting the concrete in a rhythm that matches the pounding in your skull.

Through the cracked viewport, the atmospheric glow shifts from deep blue to amber. Kindle's ending early today.

Fuck.

That means Wane in two hours, maybe less. The tunnels turn into hunting grounds when the light dies.

But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is who you’ve been paired to by the Epitaph System.

Perfect genetic match with Commander Kim Namjoon. The fucking architect himself.

The man who built the algorithm that decides which matched pair lives through Transference and which one dies. The machine that's slaughtered thousands while claiming to save the species from Veris. The coldest bastard in the Consortium's command structure.

And apparently, your genetic twin. Your perfect fucking match.

"This is a joke, right?" Your laugh scrapes raw from your throat. "The great rebel hacker and the Consortium's prize tactician? What, did they manipulate my profile in the database?"

Yoongi doesn't bother looking up, fingers skimming over the interface. His hands are scarred from years of working with explosives, chemical burns mapping a history of missions across his skin. 

“Database is clean. This is a primary pull, not from the central network. Direct sample comparison."

The reality sinks teeth into your gut. "He'll know."

"Already does." Yoongi's voice drops lower. "Alert went system-wide the moment the match registered. They'll be hunting you."

"They've been hunting me for years." 

You check your gear reflexively—blade at your hip, pistol in its holster, backup knife in your boot. The weight is familiar, comforting in its lethality. 

"This just changes the price on my head."

"This isn't a bounty adjustment." Yoongi finally looks up, and the rare direct eye contact makes your spine stiffen. "This is different. The Consortium needs you alive now. Intact. For Transference."

The word hangs between you like a death sentence, which it is. 

One match survives the procedure. One dies. 

The Epitaph Algorithm determines which—its selection criteria known only to Namjoon himself.

"I'm not surrendering to that death lottery," you say, checking the ammunition counter on your pistol. "Especially not with him on the other end."

"Not asking you to." 

Yoongi rises, tucking the portable interface into his pack. You catch the faint scent of explosives that always clings to him, metallic and sharp. 

"But Jimin's on his way with news. High-level Consortium chatter. We need to know what we're dealing with."

Your jaw tightens. "We're dealing with me on a countdown to either execution or unwanted immunity."

The door to the outpost slides open with a pneumatic hiss, admitting a gust of cold air that tastes like steel and chemical runoff—the familiar breath of Hollow Crest's lower levels. 

Jimin steps through, silver-blonde hair stark against his stealth gear. Despite the urgency, he moves with no wasted energy.

One look at his face tells you everything.

"They've adjusted the standard protocols," he says, not bothering with greetings. "Consortium's deploying specialized units. They want you within the hour."

"They can keep wanting." You check your comm unit, scanning frequencies for Consortium chatter. "I'll be halfway to the Scorch Rift by then."

Jimin's hand closes around your wrist, his grip stronger than his frame suggests. "You don't understand. They've instituted a Protection Protocol. Anyone harboring you is marked for immediate execution. Anyone helping you escape—the same. They've already deployed squads to known Shroud safehouses."

The implications wash over you like acid. 

"They're forcing allies to become hunters."

"It gets worse." 

Jimin releases your wrist, pulling up a projection from his own comm unit. A holographic map of Hollow Crest shivers to life between you, red markers pulsing at key tunnel junctions. 

"They've sealed all primary exits. Secondary routes are being patrolled by drones. They're not just hunting you—they're burning the entire sector to flush you out."

"Because of a blood match?" Your voice sharpens. "They've never gone this far for a Transference capture."

"You've never seen a 100% match before." Yoongi's voice drops like a stone. "Nobody has. The implications for the Epitaph System itself..."

The words die as a distant boom shakes dust from the ceiling. Proximity charges. Consortium's getting closer.

"We need to move," Jimin says, already gathering his pack. "Safe route through maintenance shaft C4 is still clear. We've got maybe twenty minutes before they sweep this sector."

You grab your gear, muscle memory taking over while your mind races. "Where's Jungkook? And Taehyung?"

"Jungkook's creating diversions near the border checkpoints," Jimin answers, checking the seal on his mask. "Taehyung was on a supply run when the alert went out. Still no contact."

Something cold settles in your stomach. 

Taehyung going silent during a crisis never ends well.

The three of you move into the tunnel, the faint blue-green phosphorescent fungi that crawls along the walls providing just enough light to navigate by. The air grows thicker as you descend, way too dense woth mineral dust and the peculiar damp of Hollow Crest's recirculated atmosphere.

"Wait." 

You freeze, one hand raised. The tunnel ahead is silent—too silent. Even the distant hum of ventilation systems seems muffled. 

“Something's wrong."

Yoongi's hand goes to the explosive charges at his belt, a reflex born from years of narrow escapes. 

Jimin pulls a scanner from his jacket, checking for life signs.

"Clear readings," he whispers, "but something's interfering with—"

The wall to your right explodes inward, chunks of concrete and metal rebar ripping through the air. The concussive force throws you against the opposite wall, your shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. 

Through dust and debris, armored figures pour into the tunnel—Consortium Purifiers, their masks filtering the dust, weapons raised.

You draw your pistol in one fluid motion, muscle memory overriding the pain screaming through your shoulder. 

Two shots—the first catches a Purifier in the neck joint of their armor, the second misses as the tunnel fills with suppression gas. 

Yoongi hurls something toward the breach, a small device that clatters among the Purifiers' feet. 

“Down!" he shouts, and you have just enough time to cover your face before the flashbang detonates, momentarily blinding your attackers.

Your blade finds the gap in a Purifier's armor as they stumble. Jimin is now using his modified medical tools as weapons, striking pressure points. Yoongi creates chaos, small charges blasting debris to create cover.

But there are too many. 

For every Purifier that falls, two more push through the breach. 

Your lungs burn from the suppression gas, vision narrowing as your body fights the sedative compounds. 

Beside you, Jimin staggers, his reactions slowing.

A voice cuts through the haze—amplified, cold, and terrifyingly familiar even though you've only heard it through propaganda broadcasts.

"Stand down." 

Commander Kim Namjoon steps through the chaos, flanked by elite guards. 

The architect of the Epitaph System himself—a tall figure in black tactical gear that absorbs the meager light. 

His eyes are obsidian dark and assessing as they lock onto you. A streak of white cuts through his otherwise black hair—a genetic marker you've seen in Consortium propaganda. 

The mark of exceptional neural development.

"Rebel." 

The word sounds wrong in his mouth. 

"Resistance will only result in collateral damage to your associates. The Transference Protocol has been initiated."

You raise your pistol, aiming directly at his head. 

"Then why don't I save us all the trouble and put a bullet in your skull right now? No match, no protocol."

He doesn't even blink. "Because the Consortium has already deployed Purification squads to three rebel safehouses. Your cooperation ensures their survival. Your resistance guarantees their execution."

Your finger hovers on the trigger, hatred a physical pressure behind your eyes. 

You could do it. End the architect of so much suffering with a single shot. 

But the calculation is clear—he wouldn't be here without insurance policies in place.

"You're lying," you snarl, but doubt creeps in—because you know the Consortium would absolutely slaughter innocents to secure a prize like you.

"I don't lie when the truth is more effective." He responds monotonically. "Sixty days. The standard countdown for all matched pairs before Transference. Cooperate, and no one else dies today."

Beside you, Jimin struggles to stand, the suppression gas taking its toll. Yoongi has gone completely still.

"And if I refuse? If I put a bullet in your brain right now?" 

"Then you eliminate the only person with authority to call off the Purification squads." 

His lips curve in what might be a smile on anyone else. 

On him, it's just another weapon. 

"Your reputation suggests you're many things, but not someone who sacrifices innocents for personal vendettas."

The worst part is he's right. You've spent years ensuring your actions hurt the Consortium, not its victims. 

Still, your finger remains on the trigger, the temptation almost overwhelming.

Namjoon extends a hand, palm up. Empty. A gesture that should appear peaceful but somehow reads as the most threatening thing you've ever seen.

"Sixty days. Then the Epitaph Algorithm determines our fate. Until then, neither side benefits from pointless casualties."

You lower your weapon slowly, hate burning cold in your chest. 

“When this is over, only one of us walks away." 

"Indeed. Those are the terms of Transference."

As Purifiers move to secure you, you lock eyes with Yoongi. A slight nod passes between you—the signal established years ago. 

This isn't surrender. It's tactical repositioning. You'll find another angle, another weakness to exploit. 

You always do.

The Commander steps closer, and you catch his scent—cold stone and mineral water, like a mountain stream in winter. Nothing warm or human. It fits.

"Welcome to the Epitaph Program, rebel."

You bare your teeth in what no one would mistake for a smile. 

"Looking forward to watching you die, Commander."

Something dangerous flickers in his eyes—the first genuine reaction you've seen. Good. You've found a nerve. You'll need every advantage for what's coming.

Because one thing is certain: in sixty days, either Commander Kim Namjoon dies, or you do.

And you've never been good at dying.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

You're seated across from the man who built the machine that's going to kill one of you in sixty days. 

Or part of it. Not that you care what his stupid fucking job really entails.

The transport vehicle reeks of fear and industrial disinfectant, and the restraints around your wrists are some kind of adaptive metal—tight enough to cut circulation if you struggle, loose enough to maintain the illusion that cooperation might earn you breathing room.

It won't.

Commander Kim Namjoon hasn't looked at you since the Purifiers loaded you into the back of this armored carrier. He's reviewing something on a tablet, stylus moving across the screen. 

That silver strand of hair stands out like a scar, and you imagine pulling it out. 

You inwardly promise yourself one day you’ll do it.

You then catalog details because that's what keeps you alive. Emergency release on the restraints—magnetic, probably voice-activated by his authorization. Door mechanism—sealed from the outside, no manual override. Two Purifiers flanking the exit, weapons drawn but not aimed. They're confident you're contained.

Fucking amateurs.

The vehicle hits a pothole, jarring your shoulder against the metal wall. The impact sends fire down your arm where you took that hit during the tunnel breach. You don't let the pain show on your face.

Never give them ammunition.

"Impressive response time," you say, breaking the silence because you need to understand his operational patterns. "From match notification to capture—what, forty-seven minutes? Someone's been planning for contingencies."

He doesn't look up from his tablet. "Standard protocol accounts for high-value targets attempting immediate extraction."

"High-value." You test the word, find it bitter. "That what I am now?"

"You are a 100% genetic match." His voice carries no inflection, like he's reading from a technical manual. "The first documented case in Epitaph Program history. Your research value exceeds your threat designation."

Research value. 

Like you're a fucking specimen.

You lean forward as much as the restraints allow, forcing him to acknowledge your presence. 

“Let me guess—you're going to poke and prod and analyze every cell in my body to figure out why the great Algorithm paired us up. See if you can replicate the conditions."

That gets a reaction. His stylus stops moving. His eyes lift from the screen to meet yours, and for a split second you see something flicker behind the cold assessment—irritation, maybe. Or calculation.

"The Algorithm doesn't make errors," he says. "If we're matched, there's a biological imperative the system recognized that we haven't yet identified."

We. Like you're partners in this.

"Sorry to break it to you, Commander, but the only biological imperative I have regarding you is figuring out which vital organ to perforate first."

He sets the tablet aside, giving you his full attention for the first time since the capture; and the weight of his focus is unsettling—like being examined by something predatory that's deciding whether you're worth the effort to kill.

"Your reputation suggests tactical intelligence despite emotional volatility," he says. "The Algorithm factors psychological compatibility alongside genetic markers. There must be structural similarities in our cognitive architecture."

The clinical way he dissects the situation makes your skin crawl. 

"Structural similarities. Right. Because we're both such charming personalities."

"Neither of us appears capable of forming conventional emotional attachments. We prioritize mission objectives over personal sentiment. We've both sacrificed individuals we were responsible for when strategic necessity demanded it."

The observation hits like a blade between ribs. 

Too accurate. Too specific.

"Sounds like you've done your homework."

"I researched your operational history after the match registered. Hollow Crest tunnels, Mournwell extraction, the data theft from Virex Shard. Your tactical approach is methodical. Ruthless when required." His head tilts slightly, studying you like a particularly interesting equation. "Not what I expected from rebel psychological profiles."

"Disappointed I don't fit your propaganda?"

"Intrigued that you understand the necessity of calculated sacrifice."

The words land where he wants them to, and you realize he's testing you. 

Probing for reaction points. 

Two can play that game.

"Calculated sacrifice," you repeat, letting mockery creep into your voice. "Is that what you call the thousands who've died in your Transference chambers? Calculations?"

Something shifts in his expression—subtle, but you've spent years reading micro-expressions in combat situations. His jaw tightens by maybe half a millimeter.

"Every death serves species survival. Individual casualties are regrettable but necessary to prevent extinction-level population decline."

"How convenient that you get to decide who's expendable."

"The Algorithm decides."

"You built the Algorithm."

"I built a system that makes optimal choices without emotional compromise."

You lean back, studying him. "And what happens when the system decides you're expendable? When we're strapped into those chairs and your precious Algorithm picks me to survive?"

For several seconds, he doesn't respond. It’s just your breathing, his, and the vehicle’s engine.

"The Algorithm doesn't account for personal preference," he finally says. "If it selects you, the result serves optimal biological continuation."

"That's not what I asked."

His fingers drum once against his knee—such a small gesture you almost miss it. "I've prepared for all possible outcomes."

Bullshit. Nobody prepares to die, not really. 

And especially not someone who's spent years playing god with other people's lives.

You're about to press the point when the vehicle lurches to a halt. The Purifiers straighten, hands tightening on their weapons.

Through the small reinforced window, you catch a glimpse of Valis Core's outer ring—towering spires of black stone and steel that seem to absorb light rather than reflect it. 

The architecture is designed to intimidate, and you hate that it's effective.

"Welcome to your new accommodations," Namjoon says, rising as the rear doors unlock. "I trust you'll find them... sufficient."

The way he says sufficient makes it sound like a threat.

One of the Purifiers moves to release your restraints, and you resist the urge to test their reflexes. 

Not yet. 

You need to understand the lay of the land first, map escape routes, identify weaknesses.

Patience. Even when everything in you screams to fight.

"After you," you say as the metal cuffs retract. "Wouldn't want to miss the grand tour."

He steps aside to let you exit first, a gesture that might seem polite if not for the armed guards surrounding the vehicle. 

The Epitaph Citadel looms ahead, its central spire disappearing into the aurora-streaked sky. 

Somewhere inside that building is the machine that will determine which of you dies.

Sixty days.

You step forward, boots ringing against polished stone, and don't look back to see if Commander Kim Namjoon is following.

He is, of course. 

You can feel his presence like static electricity—a constant, irritating awareness that prickles along your spine.

This is going to be a very long sixty days.

But you've survived worse odds before. And if the Algorithm thinks it can break you down into components and variables, it's about to learn something new about what happens when you back a Hollow Crest tunnel rat into a corner.

You don't go quietly. You bring the whole fucking place down with you.

Your boots hit the ground with excessive force once you make it to the Citadel.

It’s obscenely loud, in comparison to the city. 

But that’s good. They should know you're not going quietly.

The atmosphere is sterile, a half-hearted attempt at breathable. Your lungs reject it on instinct, tasting the air in all its hollow decadence—too clean, too wrong, stripped bare.

You take three steps toward the massive entrance before Commander Kim falls into step beside you. 

Then ahead of you.

The audacity.

He walks like he owns every molecule of air in this place, shoulders straight, pace measured. Like you're supposed to follow him like some obedient fucking pet.

You stop walking.

The sudden halt makes the Purifiers behind you tense, hands shifting on their weapons. But you're not looking at them. You're staring at the back of Namjoon's head, at that streak of silver cutting through black hair.

"Is there an issue?" He doesn't turn around. Doesn't even slow his stride.

"Yeah, actually." Your voice carries across the courtyard. "Where exactly do you think you're going?"

Now he stops. Turns. Those dark eyes scan you like you’re a broken system readout—something in need of diagnostics.

"To show you your living arrangements."

Living arrangements.

“Be deadass right now."

A slight head tilt. That’s all you get while he tries to decrypt whatever ‘deadass’ means.

And failing, because apparently fluency in rebel sarcasm isn’t part of the Citadel curriculum.

"The Transference Protocol requires proximity monitoring. You'll be housed in the Citadel for the duration of the countdown."

Housed. 

Like livestock.

Your feet plant themselves against the stone, rooted by pure stubborn fury. 

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Your preferences are irrelevant." He states it like a law of physics. "The sixty-day monitoring period begins immediately."

"Monitoring—" 

The word sticks in your throat like glass. 

Because now you understand. 

This isn't just imprisonment. They're going to watch you. Study you. Document every heartbeat and breath and moment of weakness while you wait to die.

"No." The word tears out of you, rough and raw. "Absolutely fucking not."

One of the Purifiers steps forward, clearly interpreting your refusal as a threat. Namjoon raises a hand—barely a gesture—and the guard freezes.

"Resistance will not alter the Protocol," he says. "Your genetic compatibility requires observation to understand the unprecedented synchronization patterns. This is not negotiable."

The clinical way he dissects your future makes your skin crawl—as if you're already dead, just a collection of data points waiting to be analyzed.

"I'd rather take my chances in the execution chamber."

"That option is no longer available."

The Purifier behind you moves—not threatening, but positioning. Ready to assist if you decide to bolt. 

Your muscles coil instinctively, mapping distances, calculating angles.

Could you take three armed guards? Probably not without significant injury. Could you reach a weapon? Maybe, if you were fast enough and lucky enough and willing to sacrifice—

"Walk," Namjoon says, and somehow that single word carries more menace than any threat. "Or be carried. Your dignity is the only variable you control."

Dignity.

The bastard knows exactly which nerve to hit.

You force your feet to move, each step feeling like capitulation. But you're not surrendering. You're adapting. Learning the terrain. 

Finding the cracks you'll eventually exploit.

Namjoon resumes walking, and you fall into step beside him—not behind, because fuck him and his superiority complex—matching his pace. 

If he notices the aggressive mirror of his movement, he doesn't acknowledge it.

"The monitoring period involves shared tactical exercises," he continues, voice neutral as he explains your nightmare. "Joint mission parameters across multiple sectors. Physiological compatibility assessments every forty-eight hours."

Shared tactical exercises. Joint missions.

The implications hit like hammer blows.

"You're saying we're going to be—" Your voice catches. Clears. Continues with forced steel. "Working together."

"The Protocol requires operational cooperation. Your survival skills complement my strategic analysis. The Consortium benefits from the collaboration while studying our genetic synchronization."

Our. Like you're a team. Like you've chosen this.

"And if I refuse to cooperate?"

He stops again, turning to face you fully. 

For the second time since the capture, you have his complete attention. It feels like standing in the path of an avalanche.

"Then you remain confined to observation chambers while your rebel associates face the consequences of harboring a Priority Target."

The threat lands exactly where he aimed it. 

Yoongi. Jimin. Even Jungkook, wherever he is. 

Your cooperation isn't just about your own survival—it's about keeping the Consortium from turning their very considerable attention toward hunting down everyone you've ever worked with.

Checkmate in three fucking moves.

You want to hit him. Want to drive your fist into that perfectly composed face and watch him bleed. Want to see if anything human exists behind those calculating eyes.

Instead, you smile. Sharp enough to cut.

"How thoughtful of you to give me such compelling motivation."

"I find practical incentives more effective than ideological appeals."

"Right. Because you're such a practical man." 

He turns and continues walking toward the Citadel's entrance—a massive archway that seems designed to swallow people whole. You follow because the alternative is being dragged, and you'll be damned if you give him that satisfaction.

But with every step, rage builds like pressure behind your ribs.

Sixty days of this. Sixty days of shared missions and proximity monitoring and having to look at his face while he calmly explains how one of you is going to die.

Sixty days of pretending cooperation while planning his destruction.

The entrance hall is honestly ugly—all polished black stone and cold light, very Citadel vibes. The sound of your booths get swallowed by the vast empty space.

"Your quarters are on Level Seven," Namjoon says as you walk. "Adjacent to the monitoring facilities. Meals are provided at scheduled intervals. Personal effects will be processed and returned based on security assessment."

Adjacent to monitoring facilities. Of course.

"And you?" The question slips out before you can stop it. "Where are your quarters?"

He glances at you—a quick, measuring look. "Level Eight. Protocol requires close proximity without direct cohabitation during the initial assessment period."

One floor up. Close enough to respond to any emergency, far enough to maintain the illusion of separate accommodation.

Your laugh scrapes raw from your throat. "How considerate. Wouldn't want to make this too uncomfortable."

"Comfort is not a consideration. Operational efficiency is."

You turn back to face him, noting the way he’s positioned himself just outside striking distance. Like he’s calculated exactly how far your reach extends if you actually wanted to drag his stupid face through the ground.

Probably has.

“You think you’re clever.” Your voice comes out rougher than intended. “Backing me into corners, limiting my options. Playing chess while I’m stuck playing checkers.”

His head tilts again—that same assessment that makes your skin crawl.

“I think you’re more intelligent than your file suggests. And far more dangerous than standard containment protocols account for.” His eyes never leave yours. “Which is why we’re having this conversation instead of proceeding with unconscious transport to a restraint chair.”

The casual mention of restraints sends ice through your veins. “So kind of you.”

“Practical.” He gestures toward the door again. “As I said, entirely your choice. Cooperation with dignity, or compliance without it.”

Choice. Like either option doesn’t end with you trapped in his maze.

But he’s right about one thing—your dignity is all you have left. And you’d rather walk into hell on your own terms than be dragged.

You step toward the door, noting the way he doesn’t relax until you’re moving in the right direction.

Smart man. You are exactly as dangerous as he suspects.

Maybe more.

The biometric scanner reads your palm print, and the door slides open. 

The room beyond is… not what you expected. Clean. Comfortable. Almost pleasant, if you can ignore the complete absence of windows or any view of the outside world.

“Welcome to your new home,” Namjoon says from behind you. “I trust you’ll find it adequate.”

You step inside, already cataloging the space. Bed. Desk. Small attached bathroom. No obvious surveillance equipment, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

“When do these interaction periods start?” 

You don’t turn around, afraid you’ll throttle him if you see his expression once more.

“Tomorrow. After you’ve had time to… acclimate.”

The pause before acclimate tells you everything you need to know. They expect you to break down. To crack under the pressure of isolation and impending death.

They’re going to be utterly, vastly disappointed.

You turn to face him one last time before the door closes between you.

“See you tomorrow, Commander.”

His eyes meet yours, and for just a moment, something passes between you. 

Recognition, maybe. 

Or the acknowledgment that this is going to be a very long sixty days for both of you.

“Indeed.”

The door slides shut with finality that feels like a coffin lid closing.

You’re alone. Trapped. 

Sixty days from either death or unwanted salvation.

But you’re still breathing. Still thinking. Still planning.

And Commander Kim Namjoon has no idea what he’s just locked himself in close proximity with.

next | index

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© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

The lower levels carry it like a stain, mixing with mineral dust and the pungent tang of corroded metal until breathing feels like swallowing history.

Your history.

You lead the way because Namjoon doesn’t know shit about tunnel navigation. His fancy Valis Core education probably covered atmospheric composition and structural engineering, but it sure as hell didn’t teach him how to read the way shadows pool around unstable support beams.

Or how to spot tripwires in near-darkness.

The mission briefing was barely a briefing, that much you remember.

Vague parameters—recovery operation, high-value target, enhanced asset escaped transport during routine transfer to Virex Shard facilities.

Your job: use regional knowledge to track the target through Hollow Crest’s labyrinth.

Their job: keep you on a leash while pretending you’re a valued operational resource.

Simple. Right.

Nothing about Hollow Crest is ever simple.

Your boots find purchase on uneven ground, subconscious guiding each step. Three meters ahead, turn left at the collapsed support beam, duck under the low-hanging conduit that’ll crack your skull if you’re not careful.

Behind you, Namjoon’s footsteps are too steady. Too confident for someone navigating hostile territory.

It pisses you off.

If only he tripped over.

If only he fucking died right there.

A wire catches light for half a second—thin filament stretched across the tunnel at ankle height.

You step over it without breaking stride.

Behind you, there’s a silence so loud it might as well be a noise.

You glance back.

Namjoon’s frozen mid-step, one foot hovering inches above the wire. His eyes track the filament’s path from left wall to right, following it to where it disappears into darkness.

Then he completes the step. Over the wire. Clean.

Fuck.

“Traps?” His voice carries no surprise.

You shrug, continuing forward. “Welcome to Hollow Crest territory. If you don’t know the tunnels, you’re dead.”

“Then inform me of trap locations.”

A laugh escapes before you can stop it. Bitter.

“I don’t feel like it.”

Silence behind you.

Alas, he speaks. “That seems counterproductive to mission success.”

“So does dragging me into your recovery operation without full briefing details, but here we are.”

You can practically hear him processing that, running probability assessments about whether you’re serious.

You are.

He can figure it out on his own like you had to when you were younger.

Like all of you having had to grow up in a place that wants you dead.

The tunnel curves ahead, narrowing. Your shoulders almost brush the walls as you navigate the space, hand trailing along cold stone to maintain orientation in the dark.

All the while, Mr. Commander simply moves gracefully, way too gracefully for someone his height.

No stumbling. No hesitation.

It’s disorienting.

Because he’s smart, right? Brilliant even. Architect of the Epitaph Algorithm. The kind of genius that can reduce veyran existence to elegant equations.

Doesn’t mean he has survival instincts.

Book smarts and street smarts are different animals. You’ve seen plenty of educated idiots get themselves killed in Hollow Crest because they thought knowing was the same as understanding.

If you’re lucky, he should be dead within the hour.

Then again—if you had any luck at all, you wouldn’t have been matched to him in the first place.

His voice snags your attention right back to his mouth. “Then allow me to set them apart.”

“Set what apart?”

“Knowledge and instinct.”

Before you can respond, he moves.

Not toward you. Sideways. His hand finding a support beam you didn’t even see in the darkness, testing its weight distribution with pressure that’s too precise to be guesswork.

“This section,” he observes, “shows water damage consistent with periodic flooding. Structural integrity compromised at load-bearing junctions.” He pauses. “Tripwire placement would logically exploit existing weaknesses to maximize cascade failure.”

Your jaw clenches.

Because he’s right.

Three steps later, the floor shifts.

Pressure plate.

You pivot left, weight transferring to your right foot as you skip over the trigger zone. The movement is pure instinct, born from years of navigating Hollow Crest’s constantly evolving hazards.

Behind you, that same silence again.

You glance back.

Namjoon’s already cleared the pressure plate. Smooth sidestep, like he calculated it. Like he predicted exactly where it would be based on—

What, structural fucking mathematics?

“Predictable placement,” he murmurs. “High-traffic chokepoint. Optimal psychological impact zone.”

Your hands curl into fists.

The tunnel promptly opens into a wider chamber—old excavation site, abandoned when the mineral veins dried up. Support beams crisscross overhead, some stable, most not.

You navigate by memory, avoiding the sections where cave-ins are most likely.

A sound catches your attention. Soft scraping against stone.

Your hand moves to your sidearm, fingers finding the grip as you scan the darkness.

There.

Movement in the shadows, too quick and brutal to be an actual living being.

Scavenger drones—automated remnants from old mining operations. Most are harmless. Some aren't.

These ones unfold from the darkness with too many limbs, optical sensors glowing red in the gloom.

Hostile configuration.

You move instantly, dropping low as the drone's targeting laser sweeps the space you just occupied. Your roll brings you behind a collapsed support beam, using it for cover as—

The drone jerks sideways.

Mid-targeting sequence, it just… jerks. Like someone calculated its center of gravity and exploited the weakness.

You peer around the beam.

Namjoon's holding a fist-sized chunk of rock. The drone's optical housing is shattered, sparks cascading from the damaged circuitry.

He threw a rock. Hit a moving target in near-darkness. Destroyed its primary sensor array with one clean strike.

The drone spins wildly before dropping. When it hits the ground, the impact kicks up a cloud of mineral dust—the fine, powdery shit that coats everything in the lower levels. Centuries of accumulated sediment from mining operations, disturbed by the drone's thrashing limbs.

The dust billows outward in a wave—and in its path, it finds Namjoon.

It engulfs him, and you catch his hand moving to his face instinctively, wiping—

Fuck.

That shit burns when it gets in your eyes. You've made that mistake exactly once before learning to always, always shield your face when anything kicks up dust in the lower levels.

His jaw tightens. Just slightly.

But then he just drops his hand, keeps his eyes closed.

"Hostile automatons," he states, voice perfectly level despite the fact that his vision is opaque. "Approximately seven more in scanning range."

How—

But he's already moving.

Not toward you. Not away from the threat.

Toward it.

Three drones emerge from the darkness, optical sensors glowing red as they lock onto him.

And Namjoon's eyes are still closed.

He tilts his head slightly. Listening. Tracking movement through sound alone.

The drones converge.

Namjoon's hand finds a rusted support beam. His fingers trail along its surface—feeling the structural integrity, the weight distribution, the pivot points.

Then he pulls.

The beam swings. Massive arc of corroded metal sweeping through space where all three new drones are.

Like he knew exactly where they'd be despite not being able to see them.

The impact sounds like breaking glass. Metal shrieks. Sparks cascade.

When the beam stops swinging, there's just wreckage.

Your brain stutters.

Because he just destroyed three drones with his eyes closed.

"Remaining four," he continues, and his voice carries that same tranquility. "Western access point. Flanking pattern."

You don't even know where the fucking western access point is in this section.

But when you scan the darkness, you catch movement. Four heat signatures emerging from collapsed scaffolding to your left.

Exactly where he said.

How the fuck—

The drones spread out, trying to surround him as their targeting systems click, acquiring locks.

The first one launches, and he dodges without breaking a sweat, just a sidestep to the side.

Then, he pivots. His boot connects with something—empty air, you think at first. Then you see the drone fold around the impact point, central processor crumpling.

He kicked it out of the air without looking.

The second drone comes from behind. Silent approach. Cutting lasers active.

Namjoon drops. Rolls. Comes up with a chunk of debris that he hurls backward with enough force that you hear the impact before you see the drone crash.

The third drone tries a vertical approach. Descending from overhead structural supports.

Namjoon's hand shoots up. Catches one of its limbs mid-descent. Uses the drone's momentum to redirect it straight into the fourth drone's flight path.

Both go down in a tangle of sparking components.

Silence.

All seven drones. Dead. Destroyed.

And Namjoon's eyes have been closed the entire time.

Your heart hammers against your ribs, sensation colored by aomething that feels uncomfortably close to awe.

Because that wasn't luck. That wasn't even skill.

That was instinct.

The same one you had to develop when you fled Valis Core with Niphyno.

Namjoon stands perfectly still for three seconds.

Then his hand sweeps over his forearm, an interface glowing faint beneath his sleeve. It scans his face first, then seems to scan his eyes.

In a beat, his eyelids rise.

He blinks once. Twice. Tests his vision against the darkness.

"Mineral particulate irritation," he observes. "Neutralized."

Neutralized.

Like he didn't just fight seven hostile drones blind and win without breaking a sweat.

You stare at him.

At his perfectly controlled posture. At the way he's already assessing the space for additional threats. At the complete absence of concern about what just happened.

"What the fuck was that?" You gesture at his forearm. "On your arm."

He glances down. Blinks. "Standard field interface. Multi-function tactical equipment."

"Multi-function meaning what?"

"Communication protocols with Consortium command. Minor irritant treatment—ocular irrigation, dermal chemical neutralization. Limited data storage for mission documentation." His voice stays level. "Normative for field operatives."

“Wait—" You process that. "So you’ve been recording me?"

"No. Brief visual captures only. Ten-second maximum duration. Limited storage capacity."

"Bullshit. You just said it captures visual—"

"Valiskan law prohibits authorities below Level 8 from recording individuals outside their operational jurisdiction without explicit consent." His gaze meets yours. "You are not within my jurisdiction. Recording you would constitute legal violation."

You blink. "That's actually a law?"

"Regulation 11.2-Sigma. Enacted following the Valis Core surveillance scandals three arcs ago." He pauses. "It is not in my best interest to violate regulations without a justifiable motive, you understand."

Right.

Because of course he follows the rules. Even the ones about privacy and consent and not turning people into unwilling surveillance subjects.

"But it could record me," you press. "If you wanted to break that regulation."

"It could. But the storage capacity is minimal. Ten seconds total across the device's entire operational lifespan until reset." His thumb moves across the interface. "Currently stores three seconds of tactical footage from a previous operation. Leaving seven seconds available."

Three seconds. That's it. That's all the recording capacity the entire device has.

"That's fucking useless," you mutter.

"Adequate for its designed purpose. Brief documentation of critical mission moments. Chemical composition verification. Evidence preservation when necessary." He adjusts his sleeve. "Not designed for surveillance. Designed for operativity."

You study him. Looking for lies. For the angle he's working.

Finding… nothing.

"And it can't treat wounds?," you say. "Can't inject suppressants?"

“Medical intervention requires pharmaceutical compounds this system doesn't carry. Hence the clinic visit.”

Right.

So he's got tech that handles minor field problems—comms, eye irritation, brief documentation—but nothing that actually heals. Nothing that addresses real damage.

Useful. Limited. Exactly what you'd expect from Consortium field equipment.

"Where did you learn that," you demand.

"Learn what?"

“That. The combat, the kicks. The instincts. All of that.” You gesture at the destroyed drones, at the space he’d navigated like he’d memorized it. “Valiskans don’t fight like that. They don’t move like that.”

“I was trained.” His head tilts. “Thoroughly.”

“Not even Valiskan’s commander protocols—”

“I didn’t specify protocol.”

You swallow.

Because what in the storms does that even mean—?

“You’ve destroyed dozens of my operational objectives,” he continues, voice dropping lower. Quieter. “Did you think I wouldn’t study how you think? How you move? Where you’d set traps?”

Your blood goes cold.

“You’ve been tracking me.”

“I’ve been hunting you, Cipher. For years.” Something shifts in his expression. “Every encryption you’ve broken. Every facility you’ve compromised. Every mission you’ve sabotaged.”

He smiles. But it’s not polite.

“I know exactly how your mind works.”

The way he says it—soft, almost gentle—makes your skin crawl.

“That’s not possible.”

“Isn’t it? You favor wire-based traps in narrow passages. Pressure plates in high-traffic zones. Structural collapse in areas with pre-existing damage.” His eyes meet yours. “You’re a variable, Cipher. One someone can solve once they understand your patterns.”

“You’re full of shit.”

His expression doesn’t change. “Am I? Then explain how I’ve survived every trap you’ve led me through.”

“Luck.”

“Calculation.”

“Arrogance.”

“Competence.” He takes a step forward.

You take a step back. Automatic. Instinctive.

He notices.

“Retreating?” His voice carries something that might be amusement. “How uncharacteristic.”

“Fuck you.”

“Eventually, perhaps. Though I suspect you’d try to kill me during.”

The casual certainty in his voice makes you snap.

“I am going to kill you. Just not today.”

“Why not today?”

“Because I need you alive long enough to watch everything you’ve built burn.”

His smile is cold. “Ambitious. Also implausible.”

“We’ll see.”

“Indeed we will.”

Dust hangs in the hollow like it’s waiting for a verdict.

Your breath stirs it. His doesn’t.

And in a moment, a wintery breeze fills your lungs.

Oh.

That is his scent.

You turn away, continuing deeper into the tunnels. Trying to ignore the way your pulse hammers.

The way combat pheromones saturate the air even through the dampeners Mira gave you.

Which means they must intense enough to bleed through pharmaceutical suppression.

Three more traps. Two pressure-sensitive. One wire-based.

He dodges all of them.

Perfectly.

Your jaw hurts from clenching.

The tunnel ahead narrows further, forcing single-file movement. You lead because you’re smaller, more flexible, better suited for tight spaces.

Your hand trails along the left wall, fingers finding familiar grooves. Counting. Measuring distance.

There.

The weak point. Where decades of water damage and structural stress created a fault line that’s one good impact away from total collapse.

You’ve used this section before. Buried Consortium patrols. Sealed off pursuit.

It’s effective. Lethal.

And Namjoon’s right behind you, trusting that you’re leading him somewhere functional.

Trusting.

What a stupid fucking mistake.

Your hand finds the support beam—the one that’s barely holding this section together.

One solid hit and the whole thing comes down.

But you pivot, you make sure you do in time.

The groan starts immediately. Deep. Structural.

Namjoon’s head snaps up, and his lip tugs at the side. “Expectable.”

Stone and metal and decades of accumulated debris cascade down. You throw yourself backward, but the collapse spreads faster than expected, dust filling the air until breathing becomes impossible.

When the dust settles, there’s a wall of rubble between you and where Namjoon should be buried.

Should be dead.

But—

The rubble shifts.

No.

Stone scrapes against stone. Something’s moving. Forcing its way through the collapse with strength that shouldn’t be possible.

A hand emerges. Then a shoulder. Then his fucking face, covered in dust and blood from a cut across his forehead.

And he’s smiling.

“Tried to bury me,” he observes. “How creative.”

“Seemed efficient.”

“Seemed desperate.” He hauls himself through the gap he’d created in the rubble, muscles shifting under tactical gear. “You’re running out of options, Cipher.”

“I have plenty of options.”

“Do you?"

Your hands clench into fists. “Next time I’ll be more thorough.”

“There won’t be a next time.”

You see it coming—the lunge, the calculated angle of attack—and your body reacts on pure instinct.

You drop low, sweeping for his ankles. He jumps, boots clearing your leg by inches, and you’re already rolling, coming up with your fist aimed at his ribs.

He blocks. Forearm meeting your strike with enough force to jar your bones.

You pivot, using the momentum to spin behind him, going for a chokehold—

His elbow drives back into your sternum. Air explodes from your lungs. You stumble, and he’s there, hand closing around your wrist, twisting.

You go with it. Have to. The alternative is a broken joint.

The spin brings you face-to-face, close enough to smell winter storms and stone dust, and you drive your knee up toward his groin—

He shifts his hips, thigh blocking the strike, and suddenly you’re off balance. His leg hooks behind yours, yanking, and you’re falling—

You twist mid-descent, trying to land on your side instead of your stomach, but he’s faster. His weight crashes into you, driving you face-first into cold stone.

Your cheek scrapes against rock, sharp sting of broken skin. You try to push up. Can’t. His hand pins you down from the back with pressure that makes breathing difficult.

Your right arm—he wrenches it behind you. Not hard enough to dislocate, but sure as hell hard enough to control.

Your left hand scrabbles against the floor, trying to find purchase, trying to push yourself up—

His hand closes around your wrist. Pins it to the stone beside your head.

Then his full weight settles onto you.

Fuck.

His thighs bracket yours, caging your legs completely. His chest presses against your back, forcing your body flat against freezing tunnel floor.

You can’t move. Can’t really do much but just lie there while he adjusts his position, settling his weight more comfortably, and—

Something hard presses against your ass.

Your brain stutters. Processes.

“You brought a weapon?” The words rip out, muffled against stone. “You sick fuck, how dare you—”

He snorts.

Actually snorts, like you’ve said something hilarious instead of voicing out a concern.

“No, Cipher.”

His voice drops lower, and you feel it—the vibration of his words against your spine, threading through tactical gear.

“That’s not a weapon.”

Oh.

Oh.

Heat floods your face. Your entire body.

Because that’s—he’s—

The size of it registers belatedly. Huge. Impossibly huge, even through layers of fabric, pressing against you with weight that shouldn’t be possible.

He’s tall. You know he’s tall. Easily 6.4 feet tall, which tracks, because that’s Valiskan genetics for you.

Proportional, apparently.

Storms.

“Lesson,” he murmurs, and his breath ghosts across the back of your neck—warm despite the coldness of his skin. “Don’t try to kill me with methods I’ve already calculated.”

“Get off—”

“Right now?”

You sputter. Because the way he says it—soft, almost gentle—

This fucking bitch and his weaponizing of your slang—

“That’s not what I—”

“Isn’t it?” His hand releases your wrist, sliding down your arm with deliberate slowness. “Because from this angle, it seems like you’re asking for something very specific.”

“I’m asking you to move—”

His hand finds your throat.

Not squeezing. Just holding. Fingers wrapping around the column of your neck from behind, thumb settling against your pulse point.

You freeze.

Every muscle in your body locks up as his grip tightens just enough to make swallowing difficult. Not cutting off air—just controlling it.

The frosty fragrance feels stronger at this proximity, and you can’t help but shudder.

“Mhm,” he hums, and his lips are right there. Close enough that you feel the words against your ear. “Much better.”

You try to wiggle free, twisting your hips, trying to create space between his body and yours—

The movement grinds your ass against his erection.

You freeze again. Immediately.

But the damage is done.

A scoffed chuckle behind you.

“Hmm?" His tone belays condescension. “That desperate, Cipher? I didn’t realize you were so eager to—”

“What—no—I’m trying to—”

Your hand scrabbles, searching frantically. There has to be—he has to have—

Your fingers find his wrist. The left one, still holding your other arm pinned behind your back.

There.

The inside of his wrist. Where his pulse beats strong and steady beneath pale skin.

Has to be a triplet marker, somehow your brain knows.

You press. Hard. Desperate.

His reaction is immediate.

But not what you expected.

His breath catches.

But what you hear is not pain.

“Interesting choice,” he murmurs, and his voice has gone rough. Lower. “What exactly are you aiming for here, Cici?”

Cici.

The nickname makes something hot and vicious coil in your chest.

“I’m aiming to make you stop—”

“Are you? Because stimulating triplet markets in this situation seems counterproductive to that goal.” His hips shift against yours, accidental or not, you can’t say.

But you can feel him. And your body likes it.

His hand tightens on your throat.

Not a lot. Just enough that your next breath requires conscious effort.

“Here’s the thing about triplet markers,” he murmurs, voice dropping even lower. “They don’t cause pain. They cause submission. Pleasure. Neurochemical reward for yielding.”

His thumb finds the marker behind your right ear.

Presses.

White-hot sensation explodes through your nervous system. Your back arches involuntarily, body trying to curve into the pressure even as your brain screams at you to stop—

“So when you press mine when I’m pinning you down,” he continues, circling his thumb against your marker in slow, thorough patterns, “you’re not hurting me. You’re making me want to tame you harder.”

You try to speak. Can’t. Sensation is crashing through you in waves, each one stronger than the last, and you can feel it—the way your body is responding. The way heat pools low in your belly despite every rational thought screaming that this is wrong—

“Yoongi will gut you,” you manage to gasp. “So fucking slow. He’ll peel your skin off in strips and make you watch while—”

His smile presses against the shell of your ear.

“I don’t know who that is.” His voice carries genuine amusement. “But I look forward to making his acquaintance.”

Then he releases.

Your throat. Your marker. Your everything.

His weight lifts, and suddenly you can breathe again. Can move. Can think past the neurochemical chaos flooding your system.

You stay on the ground, braced on your forearms, lungs heaving, trying to remember how to function.

He stands smoothly, adjusting his jacket like nothing happened. Like he wasn’t just grinding his enormous erection against your ass while whispering threats in your ear seconds ago.

“Mission objectives remain unchanged,” he states, voice perfectly controlled. “Are you capable of continuing?”

You push yourself up slowly. Your hands shake. Your legs feel like they might give out.

But you stand.

Meet his eyes.

“You lead the way, Warden,” you spit.

The smile that graces his lips can only be described as victorious.

“After you, Cipher. I insist.“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

The sleep pod costs twenty-two credits for a single Wane cycle.

Namjoon observes you insert the chip, watching your fingers move across the payment panel with efficiency born from repetition. The mechanism accepts the transaction, biometric scanner confirming identity before the reinforced door slides open.

Criterial Hollow Crest accommodations. Minimal. Functional.

Sufficient for the present requirements.

The interior measures approximately three meters by two meters—carved directly into the tunnel wall with structural reinforcement preventing collapse. Temperature control maintained at eighteen degrees. Air circulation adequate but not optimal. Lighting strips embedded in the ceiling cast harsh white illumination across surfaces that show decades of use.

A replicator unit occupies the far wall. Basic model. Limited menu options.

Two sleeping pallets extend from opposite walls, separated by barely a meter of floor space. Thin thermal blankets folded at the foot of each. Storage compartments beneath.

You move inside without hesitation, familiarity evident in the way you navigate the cramped quarters. He follows, ducking slightly to clear the door frame—the ceiling height calculated for average Crester proportions, not Valis Core genetics.

The door seals behind him. Biometric lock engaging.

You are contained together for the next nine hours.

When he glances back, you are already at the replicator, selecting options. Confirming choices.

The machine hums, synthesizing requested compounds.

Namjoon conducts systematic assessment of the space.

Structural integrity: adequate. Ventilation system: functional but aging. Emergency protocols: single manual override near the door. Surveillance equipment: none visible, though audio monitoring likely exists through ventilation access points.

Escape routes: zero.

The replicator completes its cycle. Two sealed packets emerge from the dispenser slot.

You grab both, turn, extend one toward him without comment.

He accepts the packet, examining it. Adequate protein synthesis. Meat-based compound designed for maximum caloric density with minimal volume.

The texture, however, appears unappealing. Grayish-brown paste compressed into rectangular form.

Hollow Crest staple nutrition.

You’ve already settled on one of the sleeping pallets, legs crossed, tearing open your own packet with teeth when the seal resists your fingers. The scent that emerges is—

Mineral-heavy. Processed. Distinctly non-Valiskan.

“What,” you observe around a mouthful of paste, “not used to non-Valiskan food?”

The mockery in your tone is evident.

He studies the packet in his hands. Nutritional analysis based on scent profile suggests adequate protein, insufficient micronutrients for long-term Valis Core metabolic requirements.

“You’re half Valiskan,” he states. “You need fruit too.”

Your jaw stops mid-chew.

“I’m a Crester, Warden.” You swallow deliberately. “This is what we eat in Hollow Crest.”

Interesting.

The vehemence with which you reject your Valis heritage despite clear genetic markers. The way you emphasize Crester like it’s armor against biological reality.

Denial as identity formation.

He’s documented this pattern before—individuals with mixed lineage overcompensating through cultural alignment with the non-dominant genetic expression. Attempting to erase half of themselves through behavioral modification.

It never works.

Biology doesn’t negotiate.

Namjoon approaches the packet to your mouth.

“Eat.”

You blink. “What?”

“Consume a portion of my allocated nutrition.” He keeps the packet extended, positioned close enough that you’d need to lean back to avoid it.

You blink.

A frown crosses your features.

“You think I poisoned it,” you say slowly.

“I think you’ve attempted to kill me twice today already.” He shifts his weight forward infinitesimally, not attempting to be threatening, but making his presence more notable. “Probability assessment suggests a third attempt is statistically likely.”

“I didn’t—”

“Eat,” he says, and it must be clear to you now that it was not a request.

You don’t move.

Fascinating.

Most subjects comply immediately when he employs this particular tonal modulation. The implicit threat underlying the suggestion usually overrides resistance.

But you’re staring at him with something that resembles opposition rather than fear.

“And if I refuse?” you ask.

“Then I will assume the packet is compromised and dispose of it accordingly.” He pauses. “Along with any future nutrition.”

“That’s—”

“Logical risk management.”

Your jaw clenches. He watches the muscle jump beneath skin, the physical manifestation of frustration.

Then you lean forward, mouth opening.

He brings the packet closer. Watching.

Your teeth tear into the compressed paste. A single bite, pulled free with enough force that some of the mixture smears across your lower lip.

You don’t swallow.

Just sit there, mouth full, staring at him with those gold eyes that reflect light like a threat.

“Swallow.”

You don’t.

The paste sits in your mouth, probably dissolving slightly against your tongue, releasing whatever compounds were synthesized during replication. Your throat works—not swallowing, just managing saliva production.

“I said swallow.”

Still nothing.

He’s about to escalate when you—

You spit.

The paste hits his chest with enough force to splatter, gray-brown mixture spreading across in an arc that suggests aim rather than random expulsion.

Poisoned.

Of course it was poisoned.

The realization settles with neither surprise nor anger. Simply… acknowledgment.

You tried to kill him. Again. Using the most accessible method available within current constraints.

Expected.

Tedious.

Namjoon looks down at the contamination spreading across his jacket. Then back to you.

You’re wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, expression hovering somewhere between defiant and wary. Waiting for his reaction.

He sets the poisoned packet aside. Careful placement on the storage compartment. Then reaches for the cleaning cloth stored in his tactical vest.

“What did you use,” he asks conversationally while wiping paste from his chest. “Synthtox derivative? Neural inhibitor? Something Crester-specific I should catalog?”

“Does it matter?”

“For documentation purposes, yes.”

You scoff a bitter laugh.

He finishes cleaning, folds the cloth, returns it to storage.

The contaminated packet sits between you like corroboration of exactly what you are.

Dangerous.

Which he already knew. Has known since reviewing your background.

Multiple sabotaged missions. Forty-three Consortium casualties directly attributed to your actions. Encryption breaking that cost the Epitaph Program six months of research data.

You don’t fight clean. Don’t follow rules. Don’t hesitate when opportunity presents itself.

To his surprise, he finds it not entirely disappointing.

“You know,” he observes, settling onto the opposite sleeping pallet, “most assassination attempts require more subtlety than ‘please eat this obviously compromised nutrition packet.’”

“It wasn’t obvious—”

“It was blatantly obvious.” He leans back against the wall, studying you across the narrow space. “You selected your own packet first. Different menu option. Then provided mine without consuming any portion yourself despite claiming it’s standard Crester fare.”

Your expression shifts, coloring into a grimace.

“Plus,” he continues, “you initiated conversation designed to distract from the exchange. Mocking my unfamiliarity with regional cuisine to prevent detailed examination of the packet itself.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.” He tilts his head slightly. “One of your classic behavioral patterns. Attack, retreat, regroup, attack again through different vector.”

Silence falls.

You’re glaring at him, hands clenched into fists against your thighs.

He wonders what lies beneath that expression. It seems like anger masking frustration masking—what?

Fear? Desperation?

Hard to determine through the defensive layers you’ve constructed.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he states quietly. “You’re going to return to the replicator. Select actual nutrition for both of us. Consume first to demonstrate it’s not compromised. Then I’ll eat.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then neither of us eats tonight. And tomorrow’s mission will be complicated by your decreased performance from nutritional deficit.”

“I should just let you starve,” you mutter.

“You could. But that would compromise your own survival since mission success requires my continued functionality.” He pauses. “Unless you’re prepared to navigate enhanced asset recovery without Consortium support infrastructure.”

Your jaw works. Grinding teeth.

Then you stand, moving toward the replicator with snappy movements.

Good.

Anger makes you sloppy. Emotional. Easier to vector in.

The replicator hums again. New selections being processed. He watches you input commands, noting the menu choices. Protein synthesis—different formulation this time. Carbohydrate supplement. Mineral enhancement.

Actual nutrition rather than poisoned paste.

Two packets emerge. You grab both, tear one open immediately, consume a large portion while maintaining eye contact. Aggressive. Defensive.

Proving it’s safe through demonstration.

Then you extend the packet toward him.

“Satisfied?” The word comes out sharp.

“Affirmative.”

He accepts the packet, examines it briefly, then consumes a portion.

The texture is… exactly as unappealing as anticipated. Dense. Gritty. Requiring significant mastication before swallowing becomes possible.

You watch him eat with expression hovering between satisfaction and resentment.

“Tastes like shit, doesn’t it,” you observe.

“Tastes like compressed protein synthesis with insufficient flavor compounds.” He takes another bite. “Functional nutrition. Nothing more.”

“That’s what shit tastes like.”

He almost—almost—allows his mouth to curve.

Because you’re right. This does taste objectively terrible by any reasonable culinary standard. But acknowledging that would validate your mockery.

So he continues eating methodically, consuming the required nutrition despite its unpleasant characteristics.

You finish your own packet first, crumpling the container with enough force to compact it into a sphere. Then you throw it toward the disposal unit. It bounces off the rim, falls to the floor.

You don’t retrieve it.

Just settle back on your sleeping pallet, pulling the thermal blanket over your legs despite the temperature being adequate without additional covering.

Defensive positioning. Creating barriers.

Namjoon completes his meal, disposes of the container properly, then returns to his own pallet.

The space in between is barely a meter. Close enough that he can hear your breathing. Can smell the combination of stone dust and combat pheromones still lingering from earlier encounters.

Can feel the tension radiating from your position like heat.

“Fifty-nine days,” he states into the silence.

You don’t respond.

“Fifty-nine days until Transference. Until one of us dies.” He shifts slightly, finding optimal position against the wall. “You’ve attempted to kill me three times today. At this rate, you’ll make approximately one hundred seventy-seven attempts before the countdown expires.”

“Good math,” you mutter.

“Accurate math.”

“Same thing.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

Your laugh is bitter. “How is it not—”

“Because accuracy implies verification through measurement. Mathematical correctness is assumed.” He pauses. “You consistently conflate precision with arrogance.”

“Because you’re consistently arrogant.”

“I’m consistently correct. You ought to learn the difference.”

Silence falls again.

He can hear you shifting position. Adjusting the blanket. Trying to find comfort on a sleeping surface designed for function rather than rest.

“Why didn’t you report the poison attempt,” you ask finally.

“To whom?”

“Consortium. Marshal Choi. Anyone who’d actually give a shit that I tried to kill you.”

Interesting question.

Why didn’t he report it? Standard protocol dictates immediate documentation of hostile action from matched pairs. Particularly attempts at lethal sabotage.

But reporting would trigger intervention. Possible separation. Definitely increased surveillance.

All of which would complicate the mission.

“Because,” he says carefully, “it would compromise success probability to replace you at this stage of mission deployment.”

“Bullshit.”

“Accurate assessment.”

“You could’ve had me sedated. Restrained. Locked in actual containment instead of a sleep pod.”

“All of which would eliminate your operational value as regional guide.”

You sit up, blanket falling away. “You’re lying.”

He meets your gaze across the narrow space. “I don’t lie. I occasionally omit information, but direct falsehood is inefficient.”

“Then why—”

“Because your assassination attempts are predictable and thus manageable. Replacing you with an unknown variable introduces risk I’m not prepared to accept.” He tilts his head slightly. “Better the threat I understand than the one I don’t.”

Understanding flickers across your expression.

“You’re not reporting me because you want to control me yourself.”

“I’m not reporting you because current arrangements are optimal for mission success.”

“That’s the same—”

“It is not the same thing.”

You stare at him for a long moment. Then laugh—sharp, humorless sound that echoes slightly in the confined space.

“You’re a piece of shit. Like, really.”

“Think what you prefer.” He settles back against the wall, closing his eyes. “Lights decrease to minimum in three minutes. I suggest you rest while opportunity permits.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Consider it a suggestion rather than an order.”

“Sounds like an order.”

“Then interpret it however maintains your sense of autonomy.” He doesn’t open his eyes. “The lights will still decrease in two minutes forty seconds regardless.”

He hears you shifting. Muttering something probably obscene under your breath. Then the rustle of the thermal blanket being pulled up again.

Silence.

The lights decrease on schedule, Wane Deep settling over Hollow Crest.

Namjoon doesn’t sleep immediately, rather lies there in the dark, listening to your breathing even out. Cataloging the small sounds you make while trying to find comfort on an uncomfortable surface.

Aware—too aware—that you’re less than a meter away.

That the scent of combat pheromones hasn’t fully dissipated despite the dampeners.

That his body is still responding to earlier encounters with arousal the suppressants can’t fully eliminate.

That fifty-nine days suddenly feels like both too long and not long enough.

And that tomorrow brings new challenges.

But tonight, he simply has to survive sharing space with someone who wants him dead.

Conformant Epitaph Protocol.

Nothing he hasn’t calculated for.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Yoongi’s frequent spot isn’t much to look at.

It’s really just a carved-out alcove three levels below the main market, tucked behind a ventilation shaft that’s been non-functional for the better part of a decade. The kind of place you only find if you know the tunnels well enough to navigate by sound and smell instead of light.

Which Yoongi does. Has done since he was old enough to crawl.

Chemical residue and metal shavings hit your nostrils upon arrival—particular combination that means someone’s been working with volatile compounds in an enclosed space.

Home, almost, if home meant the constant threat of accidental detonation.

You round the corner and spot him.

He’s crouched over a workbench that’s really just a slab of corrugated metal balanced on stolen equipment crates, fingers moving swiftly over something small and deadly. His back is to you, shoulders hunched in that focused way that means he’s maybe thirty seconds from blowing himself up or creating something brilliant.

Or… Maybe both.

It’s Yoongi, after all.

“Yoongi,” you call out.

He goes still. Not startled—aware. Then he’s turning, and the moment his copper eyes land on you something volatilizes in his expression.

Relief.

Raw, unguarded and there.

Three steps and he tackles you like a fucking cave-in. Arms wrapping around your shoulders, hauling you against his chest with enough force to drive air from your lungs. His hands immediately start checking—patting your back, your sides, looking for injuries through touch alone.

“You okay?” His voice is rough against your ear. “Fuck, are you okay? Did they hurt you? Where—”

“I’m fine,” you manage, but he’s not listening.

His hands find your face, tilting it up so he can see properly, scanning every detail, searching for damage. For proof that you’re actually intact and not some clever replica sent to fuck with him.

“Yoon, I’m fine—”

“Bullshit.” His thumb brushes across your cheekbone, and you realize there’s probably still bruising there from when Namjoon slammed you into the ground.

Or the transportation.

Shit gets blurry after the third murder attempt.

His eyes narrow. “You’re marked up. Someone laid hands on you.”

“Yeah, well.” You try for casual. “Comes with the territory.”

He doesn’t smile. Just keeps staring at you like he’s trying to keep your face deep in the corners of his memory in case this is the last time he sees it.

Then his gaze travels. Over your shoulder. And everything about him changes.

The warmth bleeds out. His hands drop from your face. His expression goes flat—not hostile, but closed. Like people hiding when Consortium patrols arrive.

“You must be Yoongi,” Namjoon says quietly from behind you.

“Commander.” It’s not a word so much as a snarl. “Heard you were pesterin’ our girl.”

Namjoon tilts his head slightly.

“Codename Shadow—explosives specialist, survived Transference Protocol—unprecedented case study, really.”

Yoongi’s jaw works. “You done catalogin’ me, or should I turn around so you can get my full profile?”

“Current data is sufficient.”

“How generous.”

You step between them before this escalates into something physical.

Because Yoongi was there. When Namjoon came with his Purification squad and suppression gas. When you got dragged away while Yoongi and Jimin dropped unconscious from the sedatives.

He knows exactly what Namjoon represents.

And the hatred bleeding off him is enough to puddle the floor.

“Yoon,” you say quietly. “We should talk.”

His eyes snap to yours. Then he jerks his head toward the alcove.

“Yeah. C’mon.”

You follow him deeper into the space.

Namjoon follows.

Once you’re surrounded by Yoongi’s collection of volatile compounds and half-assembled explosive devices, he turns to face you fully.

“Sixty days,” he states. Not a question.

“Fifty-eight now.”

“They treatin’ you right? Or do I need to start blowin’ shit up early?”

“I’m managing.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You don’t answer.

Can’t.

Because the truth is complicated and messy and you’re not sure how to explain that you’ve tried to kill Namjoon three times already and failed each time.

Yoongi’s expression darkens. “Right. So it’s like that.”

“It’s—”

“Anyway.” He switches topics like he needs it. “What’s the op?”

“Recovery mission. Enhanced asset escaped transport. They need regional knowledge for tracking through Hollow Crest.”

“And they dragged you into it.”

“Didn’t have much choice.”

His mouth curves. Bitter. “Never do with them, yeah?”

You shift your weight. “Speaking of operations. You pick up any echoes lately? Any Phantom hummin’ frequencies they shouldn’t?”

Taehyung. You’re asking about Taehyung without saying his name.

Yoongi’s expression tightens. “Nah. Radio’s been dead-silent. Like he dropped straight into the Spiral.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.” He crosses his arms. “Don’t like it when that corner goes quiet. Means somethin’s brewin’.”

Behind you, Namjoon makes a soft sound. Curious.

Yoongi’s gaze flicks past you. “You got somethin’ to say?”

“You’re using coded terminology to discuss operational intelligence.”

“We’re havin’ a conversation,” Yoongi corrects. “In our language. Not our fault you only speak ice-blood.”

“Crester dialect incorporates regional slang with embedded tactical meanings.”

“So you do understand.”

“I understand you’re deliberately excluding my comprehension.”

Yoongi’s smile is all teeth. “Smart man.”

You almost laugh. Because watching Namjoon try to decode Crester slang is oddly satisfying in a petty, childish way.

“What about Quicksilver?” Yoongi asks, attention back on you. “He surface yet?”

Your stomach drops. “About that—”

“He’s dead?” The words rip out too fast, almost grieving immediately.

Because that’s how it is down here. Down in the Shroud.

One day you wake up. The next you might not.

“No! No, he’s—” You scrub a hand over your face. “He’s alive. But he had an episode.”

“What kind of episode?”

“The kind where he tried to gut Mr. Commander here on sight and went into full rut when I stopped him.”

Yoongi stares at you. Blinks once. “You’re shittin’ me.”

“Wish I was.”

“That fuckin’ kid.” He turns away, hand dragging through his hair. “His goddamn suicidal tendencies are gonna flatline him before he hits Mournite union age. Where is he now?”

“Mira’s clinic. She sedated him.”

The name does things to him. It takes no effort to see how he goes completely still, how his shoulders lock up, tensing beneath his jacket.

When he speaks, he tries to keep his voice light.

“She handle it okay?”

“Professionally.”

“Good. That’s—” He stops. Clears his throat. “Good.”

And there it is.

That particular tightness around his eyes. The way his hands curl into fists at his sides. The avoidant, careful way he’s not looking at you.

Mira.

The woman who ended things because they’re toxic together and he won’t let it go.

It’s pathetic.

Also kind of heartbreaking, which makes it worse.

“Speaking of medical,” Yoongi says, and his voice gets that persuasive edge that you already hate. “I need to pass some supply requests along. Tell your medic we need antibiotics.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Yoongi—”

“Don’t.”

“She doesn’t want you back—”

“I said don’t.” His jaw clenches. “This is operational. Mira’s got research that could help people, and I’ve got access to compounds she can’t source through normal channels.”

“Right. Operational.” You lean against the workbench. “That why you take injuries to her clinic that any field medic could handle?”

“Leave it alone.”

“She ended it, Yoon. She made it clear you’re bad for each other—”

“And I’m respectin’ that by keepin’ things professional.” His eyes flash. “She needs supplies. I can get them. That’s it.”

Bullshit.

But you recognize the way his voice goes flat when he’s dug in on something self-destructive.

You’ve worn that same expression plenty.

“Fine,” you mutter. “Your funeral.”

“Wasn’t askin’ permission.” He shifts focus, gaze flicking past you to Namjoon. “So. This recovery op. What’s the actual goal?”

You hesitate.

Not because sharing intel with Yoongi feels wrong—it doesn’t. He’s Shroud. Your people. The ones who actually give a shit whether you live or die.

But doing it while Namjoon’s right there listening—

That’s the part that pisses you off.

Because you have to play nice with Consortium command. Have to give them enough cooperation that they don’t decide terminating everything—everyone—you care about.

And you fucking hate it.

Hate that you’re stuck working for the people you’ve spent years trying to destroy.

“Didn’t get specifics.” You shoot Namjoon a pointed look. “Briefing was pretty fucking minimal.”

“‘Course it was.” Yoongi’s mouth curves. Bitter. “They’re usin’ you as a tracker, not a partner.”

“Yeah, well. Not like I had a choice.”

“Never do with these fuckers.” He pauses, considering. “Look. I’ve been hearin’ things. Whispers through the lower levels.”

“What kind of whispers?”

“The kind that say somethin’ nasty’s been movin’ through the old research sectors. Fast. Smart. Knows the tunnels too well to be fresh out of a lab.” His voice drops. “Trail goes cold around Level 52, but everything points toward Scorch Rift.”

Your stomach clenches.

Scorch Rift. Verge territory. Where survival is optional and Venn’s forces don’t ask questions before shooting.

Just when you thought your life couldn’t get shittier.

“So we’re walking straight into militant territory,” you mutter.

“Gets better.” Yoongi crosses his arms. “Red Verge has been mobilizin’ heavy through this sector. Venn’s forces movin’ ordnance like they’re prepping for somethin’ big. And when those psychos start stackin’ weapons—”

“Shit gets bloody.”

“Exactly.” His eyes narrow. “The Teeth are runnin’ assault configuration through unusual channels. Whatever Venn’s plannin’, it’s major. And if you’re trackin’ a Consortium asset through territory he’s about to hit—”

“I’m walking into a clusterfuck.”

“Multiple clusterfucks that don’t know about each other yet.” Yoongi’s hand finds your shoulder. Squeezes. “You’re gonna need to be real fuckin’ careful. Venn’s forces see you workin’ with him—” He jerks his chin toward Namjoon. “—they won’t ask questions. They’ll just execute you as a collaborator.”

Becuase that’s the fucking truth about Red Verge—it doesn’t do nuance. Doesn’t care about forced partnerships or impossible situations.

You work with Consortium? You die.

Simple math.

Hey, Namjoon would like them.

“Noted,” you manage.

“Good.” He releases you. “And one more thing. Phantom.”

Your blood goes cold. “What about him?”

“As I said, nothin’. Three days radio silent.” His jaw clenches. “No sightings. No intel. No fuckin’ trace. It’s not like him to go that dark.”

“Maybe he finally did what you keep accusing him of,” you say, aiming for flippant. “Cut and ran.”

“Yeah.” Yoongi huffs out a humorless breath. “Sounds exactly like him.”

There’s an edge under it that has nothing to do with tactics. You know that tone. The one he uses when he doesn’t like the way someone’s hands linger on your waist, or who you ride out a bad heat with.

“He’s not stupid,” you bite out. “If he went dark, he had a reason.”

“Sure.” Yoongi’s gaze sharpens on you. “Reason usually starts with ‘Taehyung looks out for Taehyung’ and ends with the rest of us holdin’ the blast radius.”

You roll your eyes, irritation spiking hot. “Spare me the character assessment, Yoongi. I’ve seen him in the field. He’s pulled my ass out of enough fires.”

“And you’ve pulled his.” His mouth twists. “Doesn’t mean he won’t sell the whole grid the second it benefits him. Lone wolves don’t grow pack instincts just ‘cause you’re fuckin’ them.”

The words land, you feel it in the way your shoulders lock.

“There it is,” you say flatly. “Knew we’d get to the part where you pretend this is about strategy and not your dick.”

His eyes flash. “This is about you not lettin’ some pretty-face identity ghost drag you under when he decides he’s done playin’ rebel.”

“Newsflash, Yoon—I was drowning long before Taehyung ever looked at me.” Your voice goes vicious. “And I don’t need you, or anyone, auditioning to be my moral guardian. I know exactly what he is.”

Silence stretches for a beat. Yoongi studies you like he’s weighing how far to push.

“You deserve better than a man who smells like exit plans,” he says finally, quieter.

The words scrape something raw.

“Don’t you dare.” Your jaw aches from how hard you’re clenching it. “Don’t turn this into some sad little sermon about what I ‘deserve.’ I’m not some fresh-pulled Core girl who doesn’t know what it costs when men lie.”

You lean in, eyes hard.

“If he’s dead, he’s dead. If he sold us out, I’ll open him up myself and wear what’s left of his guts like a warning flare. And when I’m done, I’ll take whatever he handed them and turn it back on the Consortium until they choke on it.”

You hold his eyes, unblinking.

“So don’t you dare stand there and act like I’m the one who needs protecting.”

Yoongi’s mouth flattens, that familiar mix of anger and reluctant respect.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s what I’m fuckin’ afraid of.”

It should feel like an insult. It lands more like a diagnosis.

You’re not sure which pisses you off more.

The venom in his voice when he said Taehyung’s name still twists low in your gut, though. Because underneath all the posturing and threat, you know one thing with sick, cold certainty—Taehyung’s silence is wrong.

Three days without a single whisper through the networks, without some cocky signal flare only you’d recognize? Without anyone catching even a glimpse?

“If he surfaces—” you start.

“You tell me immediately.” Yoongi’s eyes darken. “Not command. Not the council. Me. Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” He steps back like he’s physically forcing himself to let go of the space you take up. “Now get out before you attract attention neither of us needs.”

You nod once, turn toward the tunnel mouth and don’t look back.

Because if you do, he’ll try to say something he can’t afford to say. Or you’ll hear it anyway. Same problem.

Boots scrape behind you. Namjoon falls into step, silent as always.

Two turns later, he speaks. “He is romantically interested in you.”

You stop so fast Namjoon nearly walks into your shoulder.

You turn. “No.”

His gaze holds yours. Unmoved. “Yes.”

You let out a sharp laugh that isn’t humor. “That’s not what that was.”

“He tackled you on sight,” Namjoon replies, as if reading back a report. “He performed a tactile injury assessment. His hostility increased when he registered my presence. He issued directives regarding your communications and movements.”

“Congratulations,” you snap. “You have eyes.”

Namjoon doesn’t flinch. “Those are not neutral behaviors.”

You stare at him for a beat, jaw tight. Then you jerk your chin back the way you came—toward the alcove you can’t see anymore.

“He’s like that with everyone he gives a shit about. It’s not romance.”

Namjoon’s head tilts, faintly. “Your denial is inefficient.”

“Deep dirt, you’re insufferable.” You start walking again, forcing your legs to move before your body decides to turn around and throw a rock at his face. “Yoongi likes Mira.”

Namjoon matches your pace without effort. “I am aware.”

That makes you glance sideways. “You’re aware.”

“I listened,” he says plainly. “The name altered his baseline responses. Muscle tension. Vocal regulation. Avoidance behaviors.”

“Yeah.” The word comes out rougher than you mean it to. “He wants her. Not me.”

Namjoon’s gaze drops briefly—not to your hands, not to your mouth. To the ground between you, like he’s sorting through a sequence of cause and effect he doesn’t like. Then he looks back up.

“That does not negate the fact that he likes you.”

The statement lands wrong. Not because it’s tender—because it’s accurate in a way you don’t want to have to admit.

Yoongi’s affection is a bomb with the timer ripped off. It’s never soft. It’s never safe.

You keep your face flat. “He likes the idea that I’m still alive. Same as Jungkook. Same as half the Shroud. It’s not complicated.”

“It is complicated,” Namjoon says, calmly disagreeing like you’re arguing weather.

You bare your teeth. “What, the 100% compatibility making you jealous?”

A fraction of a pause—too small for anyone but you to catch.

“I do not experience jealousy,” he says.

“Right.” You let out a low, amused breath.

You walk in silence for a few paces, boots crunching grit, the tunnel walls sweating mineral damp. Your bruise pulls when you swallow. Your throat tastes like metal.

Then Namjoon speaks again—different angle, same blade.

“Phantom,” he says.

Your shoulders tighten. You don’t look at him. “What about him.”

“You referenced him multiple times,” Namjoon replies. “Your tone shifted when his status was discussed. Your Shroud contact displayed territorial irritation.”

You laugh under your breath. “Territorial. That’s a cute word for ‘wants to shove him off a ledge.’”

Namjoon’s voice stays even. “You have an ongoing attachment.”

“Had,” you correct. “Might be dead.”

Namjoon doesn’t react to the morbidity. Of course he doesn’t. “Convenient.”

You glance at him. “For who.”

“For me,” he answers, unfazed.

The audacity makes something hot crawl up your spine.

You slow just enough to let your shoulder brush his as you pass—a deliberate, petty contact. Not affection. A challenge.

“Lucky for you, Warden. Your match might be single right now.”

His head tilts down, eyes drop to yours. “Your phrasing suggests you are attempting to provoke an emotional response.”

“Your phrasing suggests you’re still pretending you don’t have any.”

A beat.

Then, quietly—almost like he’s testing how it sounds out loud—Namjoon says, “I wager they were not pleased about your Transference designation.”

The words carry a faint edge under its formality.

Something that might just be curiosity.

You snort. “No. They were not.”

“Because you are valuable,” he says.

“Because I’m theirs,” you correct, immediate and vicious. “Not because I’m a prize. Not because I’m some… asset to be traded between men with bruised egos.”

Namjoon’s gaze lingers on you, unblinking. “And yet you are being traded.”

Your fingers curl. Heat under your skin. Not arousal—rage.

“Keep talking like that,” you say softly, “and I’ll show you exactly how little I behave like property.”

“I am aware,” Namjoon replies. “You have demonstrated it repeatedly.”

“Yeah. And you keep surviving it. Must be disappointing.”

“It is,” he says, and it’s so flatly honest it almost catches.

You keep walking.

The tunnel opens into a wider artery—higher traffic, more light leaks from jury-rigged panels, the scent of market spice and oil creeping back in. You can hear distant voices. Hollow Crest life. Breathing around you. Watching.

Three tunnels away, with the lift platform approaching, Namjoon finally shifts back to what he actually wants to say.

“Scorch Rift represents significant tactical escalation.”

There it is. The cold center. The part of him that never stops calculating.

You don’t slow down. “So?”

“So mission parameters didn’t include Verge territory operations. We gathered the required intelligence from Hollow Crest contacts. Protocol requires return to Valis Core for information delivery to Level 9 authorities.”

You stop walking.

Turn to face him.

“You want to go back?”

“Mission objectives are complete. Regional intelligence has been obtained. Continuation into hostile territory without authorization would violate—”

“I don’t give a fuck what it violates.” Your hands curl into fists. “That asset is heading toward Scorch Rift. You want to let it disappear into Verge territory while you run back to report?”

“I want to follow established protocols for operational escalation. Intelligence delivery. Strategic assessment. Authorization for expanded mission parameters.”

“By the time you get authorization, the trail will be cold!”

“Acceptable risk given alternative scenarios.” His voice stays level. “Unauthorized pursuit into Red Verge territory creates unacceptable casualty probability.”

You whip around, frustrated.

“Since when do you care about casualties!?”

“Since the casualties would include essential operational assets.” His eyes meet yours. “Including you.”

The words land strange.

Not concern. Just… calculation. Like you’re equipment he needs to keep functional.

“We’re going back to Valis Core,” he states, final.

No.

The refusal rises automatic. Visceral.

Because going back means leaving Hollow Crest. Leaving your territory. Your people. The only place that’s ever felt like home.

Going back means returning to Valis Core’s sterile hallways and observation protocols and the constant fucking pressure of being watched. Monitored.

Contained.

Going back means sleeping in that assigned quarters where everything’s too clean and the air tastes wrong and you wake up every morning remembering you’re a prisoner pretending to be a partner.

“I’m not going back,” you say quietly.

“You don’t have a choice.”

“I always have a choice.”

“Proximity monitoring requires—”

“Requires me to stay within operational range. I know.” Your jaw clenches. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it. Doesn’t mean I’m going quietly.”

His expression doesn’t change. “Your preferences are irrelevant to protocol requirements.”

“Fuck your protocols.”

“Noted.” He pauses. “But unless you want to explain to Marshal Choi why we violated direct mission parameters, we’re returning to Valis Core. Right now.”

You want to hit him. Want to make him understand that every second you spend in Consortium territory feels like suffocation.

But he knows.

Of course he knows.

He simply does not give a fuck.

“Fine,” you spit. “We go back. We deliver your intel. We play nice with your Level 9 authorities.”

“Correct.”

“But I want something in return.”

His head tilts. “State your terms.”

“Full briefing details. Everything they told you that they kept from me. Every piece of classified intel about Subject J-7.” You step closer. “Because if we’re going back to that sterile fucking prison you call headquarters, I’m not doing it blind.”

Silence.

His jaw tightens. Just slightly.

“That information is classified Level 9.”

“I don’t give a shit what level it is—”

“Marshal Choi explicitly stated you would not receive complete operational details.” His voice drops lower. “Direct violation of his orders would result in severe disciplinary action.”

“For you, maybe. Not for me.” You cross your arms. “What are they gonna do? Terminate me early? They need me alive for proximity monitoring.”

“They need you compliant.” His eyes narrow. “There are methods of ensuring compliance that don’t require your cooperation.”

The threat hangs cold between you.

Right.

Chemical compliance. Neural suppressors. The kind of pharmaceutical control that turns people into obedient shells.

You’ve seen it before. Know exactly what Consortium ‘methods’ look like.

“So that’s it?” Your voice rises. “Either I shut up and follow orders, or you drug me into submission?”

“I stated consequences. Not intentions.” He pauses. “But yes. Those consequences exist.”

Your hands curl into fists. “You’re a real piece of shit, Warden.”

“I did not ask for your assessment.” His expression doesn’t change. “It is irrelevant to current situation.”

“Then what is relevant?”

“Mission completion. Information delivery. Protocol adherence.” His gaze stays steady. “Nothing more.”

You stare at him.

At that stupid white streak at the front that parts the indigo that grows from his scalp. At the way he stands like authority is woven into his bones.

At the absolute certainty that he won’t budge on this.

Because he’s Consortium. Level 7 Commander. The architect of the death lottery who follows rules even when they’re fucked.

And you’re—

You’re trapped. Matched to him. Forced into proximity because some Algorithm decided you’re genetically perfect together.

Fifty-eight days until one of you dies.

And he won’t even tell you what you’re actually fighting.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter.

“Believable. Expected.” He turns, resuming his path through the tunnels. “We should reach surface level within the hour. Transport arrangements will be confirmed promptly.”

Your throat tightens with frustration you can’t voice.

Because what’s the point?

He won’t change his mind. Won’t violate Level 9 Authority orders just because you’re pissed about being kept in the dark.

And you can’t make him.

Can’t force information from someone who views protocol violations as existential threats.

All you can do is follow. Return to Valis Core. Deliver intel to authorities who see you as operational asset rather than person.

And hope—hope—that somewhere in this fucked situation, there’s an angle you can exploit.

next | index

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© jungkoode 2025

His expression doesn’t change. “Am I? Then explain how I’ve survived every trap you’ve led me through.”

“Luck.”

“Calculation.”

“Arrogance.”

“Competence.” He takes a step forward.

You take a step back. Automatic. Instinctive.

He notices.

“Retreating?” His voice carries something that might be amusement. “How uncharacteristic.”

“Fuck you.”

“Eventually, perhaps. Though I suspect you’d try to kill me during.”

The casual certainty in his voice makes you snap.

“I am going to kill you. Just not today.”

“Why not today?”

“Because I need you alive long enough to watch everything you’ve built burn.”

His smile is cold. “Ambitious. Also implausible.”

“We’ll see.”

“Indeed we will.”

➜ Coming: Next Saturday (24/01) at 11PM CET. <3

You know because of the telltale—the red that bleeds into his irises like neon ink dropped in water. Swirls, spreads, fills the entire space until his eyes glow with that eerie bioluminescent shine you can see in the dark.

Warning bells. Threat assessment. Kill mode activated.

This fucking kid.

Two curved blades swing outward from opposite ends of the cylinder, locking into place with a sound like breaking bones—twin crescents gleaming under the clinic’s sterile lighting.

Double-ended death stick.

Of course that’s what the punk brought to a medical facility.

“Jungkook, don’t—”

He’s already moving.

The lunge comes low and vicious, angled toward Namjoon’s ribs in such precise way it would make you proud if it weren’t about to fuck everything sideways.

But you trained this psycho. You know his tells.

The slight shift of weight to his right foot. The way his left shoulder drops a fraction of an inch before he commits to the strike.

You pivot, rotary kick connecting with his forearm just as the blade reaches its target. The impact jolts through your leg, redirecting his momentum enough that steel slices air instead of flesh.

“What the fuck—” Jungkook snarls.

But his eyes don’t even register you—they’re locked on Namjoon like a targeting system that’s found its mark.

“Kook, stop.”

He doesn’t stop.

Instead he sweeps low, trying to take your legs out so he can get past you. The move is something you drilled into him during those brutal training sessions in Hollow Crest’s abandoned sectors.

You jump, boots clearing his leg by inches, and land in his path as he rolls forward.

He somersaults forward, using the momentum to close distance, and you’re already there. Blocking. Obstructing. Putting your body between him and his target.

The blade comes at you sideways. Not trying to kill you. Just trying to move you out of the way so he can gut to what he actually wants to gut.

You catch the cylinder shaft with both hands, twist, use his weight against him to wrench the weapon from his grip. Finally manage to redirect it towards his throat.

Jungkook’s eyes finally snap to yours, wild and furious and completely fucking unhinged.

The red glow doesn’t dim. But the immediate threat—that feral, unthinking violence—drops by a factor of ten.

“Why’re you stoppin’ me?” he growls, voice rough with rage.

The blade hovers inches from his carotid, so close to skin it could part if you applied pressure.

“I’m gonna need you to calm down.”

“Why. Is. He. Here.” Each word trembles furiously past his lips.

You feel it then—the combat pheromones flooding the air. Jungkook’s body pumping out aggression markers like a broken emergency beacon.

“He’s here because we’re both bleeding and Mira’s the only medic in Hollow Crest who won’t report us to Consortium security.”

“Don’t give a shit why he’s here,” Jungkook spits. “I give a shit ‘bout guttin’ him like the fuckin’ pig he is.”

“Kook—”

“No.” He jerks against your hold, testing the blade’s proximity to his throat. “You don’t get to ‘Kook’ me. Not ‘bout this. Not ‘bout him.”

The way he says ’him’ makes your stomach clench.

Like Namjoon isn’t even Veyran. Like he’s something that needs to be put down.

Which, to be fair, isn’t entirely wrong.

“Listen to me—”

“Fuck listenin’.” Jungkook’s muscles coil, preparing for another attack. “I’m done listenin’. I’m done waitin’. I’m done watchin’ people I give a shit about disappear into Consortium death machines while I sit ‘round playin’ nice.”

“You think I’m playing nice?”

“I think you’re standing between me and the architect of systematic murder when you should be helpin’ me turn him into fuckin’ seed dust.”

Your grip tightens on the weapon. “And I think you’re about to get us all killed because you can’t think past your anger.”

“Good. ‘Bout time someone got killed.”

He moves again—not toward Namjoon this time, but away from you. Quick sidestep that forces you to choose between maintaining weapon control and maintaining position.

You choose position.

The blade slips from his throat as you shift, just enough space for him to surge forward. His elbow snaps up, breaking your grip, and the cylinder wrenches free into his hand. He spins it once, twin edges flashing, until one gleams squarely at Namjoon.

“Jungkook, stop.”

“You’ll have to stop me.”

He feints left, then bolts right, ducking behind the clinic’s examination table.

You don’t follow—you launch, boots slamming onto the metal top before you vault clean over, dropping between him and Namjoon again.

The kid’s good. Too good.

All that rage sharpening his reflexes, turning him into something feral and deadly and completely beyond reason.

“He took you,” Jungkook snarls, frustrated with your blocks. “He fuckin’ took you and now you’re gonna die just like everyone else and I’m fuckin’—I’m so fuckin’ done with this shit!”

“Jungkook, I’m not dead yet.”

“Yet bein’ the operative fuckin’ word.” His voice cracks on the last syllable. “Sixty days, right? Sixty days ‘til one of you don’t walk away. And we both know it ain’t gonna be him.”

The pain in his voice hits harder than his fists would.

Because he’s not wrong.

The Algorithm chooses survival based on criteria only Namjoon understands. The odds of you walking away from Transference are probably shit.

But that doesn’t mean you’re giving up.

“So what’s your brilliant plan?” you ask, watching his footwork. “Kill him here? In Mira’s clinic? With Consortium security crawling all over Hollow Crest looking for exactly this kind of disruption?”

“I don’t care about—”

“I care, you dipshit.” The words come out sharp but low, between gritted teeth because you’re not giving Namjoon the pleasure of eavesdropping. “I care about Mira getting disappeared because she harbored rebels. I care about you getting executed for assassinating a Consortium Commander. I care about—”

“No!” He shakes his head, blade trembling. “No, I ain’t listening. I’m gonna gut him. Right here. Right now. And you’re gonna let me, oi? You’re gonna step aside and let me do what shoulda been done years ago—”

“Jungkook, you need to think.” You swallow hard. “I’m trying to keep you alive long enough to think past the next five seconds.”

“Don’t wanna think.” His voice drops to something raw—something that reminds you of the kid you found half-dead in Mournwell’s labor camps. “Wanna kill.”

“I know.”

“So let me.”

“Can’t.”

His next swallow chokes out, all that fury cracking to reveal something raw and ugly.

And so, so real.

“He’s the reason thousands’re dead,” he continues, gesturing toward Namjoon with the blade. “He’s the reason my parents got matched and fed into his fucking Algorithm. He’s the reason every person I’ve ever given a shit ‘bout either dies or disappears or—”

“Or gets captured and turned into lab rats for proximity monitoring,” you finish quietly.

“Yeah. Exactly.” His grip adjusts on the weapon. “So why the fuck’re you protecting him?”

“I’m not protecting him. I’m protecting you.”

“From what?”

“From making a mistake that gets everyone we care about killed.”

Jungkook laughs, sharp and bitter. “Everyone we give a shit about’s already dead. Or dyin’. Or ’bout to be.”

He moves.

Twists out of your grip with that vicious flexibility you taught him, drops low, sweeps for your ankles while simultaneously swinging the blades.

You sidestep. Obvious. Predictable.

He expected that. Uses the momentum to spin, comes up with the cylinder, already pointing at Namjoon again.

You catch his wrist. Redirect. Your boot finds his knee, not hard enough to break but enough to buckle, and he drops.

Comes up swinging.

“Stop—”

“No! He needs to die. He needs to—”

“Jungkook, for fuck’s sake! Calm down and listen to me very closely.”

“Fuck listenin’.”

“Fuck dying,” you counter.

“Nah, actually he needa die. He’s got everyone murdered, he’s—”

“Standing right here,” Namjoon says quietly.

Both you and Jungkook turn to look at him.

He’s still bleeding, holding gauze pressed to his forearm where you bit him, blood trickling down his wrist in thin rivulets.

But his posture remains perfect. His expression unchanged.

Like watching two rebels plan his assassination is just another item on his daily schedule.

“If you’re going to discuss my elimination,” he continues in that same tone, “perhaps efficiency would be served by including me in the tactical planning.”

The sheer audacity of it makes you want to laugh.

Or scream.

Or put a blade through his throat yourself.

“You think this shit’s funny?” Jungkook snarls, trying to fight against your grip.

“I think it’s inevitable,” Namjoon replies. “Someone will attempt to kill me before the sixty days expire. Logical tactical choice. My death eliminates the Transference requirement and preserves your operational asset.”

Your operational asset.

Like you’re equipment instead of a person.

“The question,” he continues, “is whether the attempt will be competent or merely enthusiastic.”

Jungkook lunges forward, or tries to.

You slam your hand against the knuckles of his right hand—scarred, fighting-hardened, perfect pressure point—and flood his system with enough neural static to make his knees buckle.

He gasps. Drops. The weapon clatters against concrete.

“Enthusiastic, apparently,” Namjoon observes.

You’re about to scream at him when the door slides open and Mira appears in the doorway, medical tablet in hand, freezing in motion.

She takes in the scene: you holding Jungkook down with one hand on one of his triplet markers, Namjoon bleeding quietly in the corner like this is all perfectly normal.

The tablet slips from her fingers. Bounces once against the floor, screen fracturing on impact.

“What,” she says slowly, “the absolute fuck is happening in my clinic?“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“Mira,” you call out to her, voice tight, "I'm gonna need a suppressant.”

Mira’s eyes widen.

She knows. Of course she knows.

One look at Jungkook—eyes still glowing red, breathing too fast, the way his chest rises and falls too fast, the combat pheromones flooding the air with that sharp, electric scent that makes your nose burn—and she’s already moving toward the cabinets.

“Don’t you dare,” Jungkook snarls, and the sound is wrong.

Too raw. Too desperate. Too wounded.

“Don’t you fucking DARE inject that shit into me.”

He tries to stand. You’re faster.

Your hand finds his shoulder, shoves him back down. He fights it—of course he does—twisting in your grip with that viciousness you taught him, and you have to move with him. Have to anticipate.

You catch his right arm, wrench it behind his back. Not enough to dislocate. Just enough to control.

He makes a sound like a pained animal.

Your other hand finds his left side, fingers pressing into the ribs where body armor usually sits. Another triplet marker. The second one.

The effect is immediate.

His whole body goes rigid. Locks up like someone cut the strings holding him together, and then—

Oh no.

The scent morphs—still that chemical signature of combat pheromones flooding the air, but there’s something else underneath now that’s warm and wrong and—

Arousal.

Pure, undiluted, biologically mandated arousal.

Bloodlust turning into actual lust.

The body’s desperate attempt to preserve the species after violence. Fight or fuck. Kill or claim.

And Jungkook just lost a fight, which means his system is screaming at him to submit, to find someone dominant, to—

“Fuck,” Jungkook gasps, and his voice breaks on the word. “Fuck, don’t—”

"Kook, you need to calm down—"

"NO!" He writhes against your hold, muscles straining. "I’m fine, I’m feelin’ fuckin’ fine. Amazing even, I just need to gut him open and watch his blood spill and I know that’ll make me feel even better so—don’t—don’t take that away from me—"

The desperation in his voice hits like a knife between ribs.

You press harder into the rib marker, trying to force him into submission. Trying to make him stop fighting long enough for Mira to—

He arches into the pressure.

Not away. Into.

“Kook—”

“Feels good,” he slurs, and the words come out thick. Giddy. Almost drunk. “Feels so—shit, it feels—”

Not pain—the opposite. Intense, overwhelming pleasure that short-circuits every rational thought.

"Fuuuuck," he moans, voice going high and desperate. "Oh fuck, that's—fuck, that feels extremely good—"

Your stomach twists into knots.

Because this is Jungkook. The kid who brings you salvaged chocolate bars when he finds them. Who falls asleep during briefings with his head on your shoulder.

And you're triggering sexual submission responses in his nervous system because it's the only way to keep him from going full murder frenzy in a medical clinic.

"I need—" he pants. "Need mo’—needa—gonna kill him so slow and then find someone to pin down and fuck raw until they beg for it—"

"Suppressant, now," you bark at Mira.

She's already loading the injector, hands steady despite the chaos.

"This dose will knock him out for hours," she warns.

"Good."

But Jungkook's beyond hearing. His pupils are blown wide, lost in the biological cocktail flooding his brain.

"Please," he whimpers, fighting between trying to escape your touch and pushing into it. "Please don't take this away—feels so fuckin’ good and it's been so long since anything felt good, please—"

The broken need in his voice fractures you.

Because you understand.

In this hellscape you call life, positive emotions are rare as clean water. Fear, anger, grief—those are the constants.

But actual pleasure? Actual chemical reward from fucked-up biology?

That's precious. That's worth fighting for.

Even when it's trying to turn you into a rutting animal.

"I know, Kook," you murmur, adjusting pressure on his triplet marker. "I know it feels amazing. But this isn't you."

"Is me," he slurs, another full-body shudder running through him. "This is what I am—killer and fucker and—and—oh god, right there, don't move—"

You close your eyes. Force yourself to maintain the pressure despite how wrong this feels.

"Gonna kill him, I swear, just—kill him, then—find the prettiest little thing and make them take my cock," he babbles, lost in rut fantasies. "Pin them down and breed them proper, make them scream while I—while I—"

The injector hisses against his neck.

Jungkook's rambling cuts off mid-sentence, frantic edge bleeding out of his voice.

"No," he mumbles, fighting the sedative. "No no no, was feelin’ s’good—first time in forever I felt anythin’ but empty and—"

"Shh," you whisper, finally releasing his triplet marker. "It's okay. You're okay."

"But I felt happy," he whispers, voice small and lost. "I felt fucking incredible and alive and—why can't I have that? Why does everything good have to be taken ‘way?"

Your throat goes tight.

Watching the suppressant drag him down, watching that manic glow fade from his eyes—it feels like stealing something precious.

"I'm sorry," you tell him as his breathing evens out. "I'm so fucking sorry."

He doesn't answer.

The sedative finally pulls him under, leaving him slack against the examination table.

The air still carries traces of combat pheromones and rut scent, making everyone slightly on edge.

Mira wipes sweat from her forehead. "That was close. Another few minutes and we'd have had a full rutting frenzy on our hands."

You step back, flexing your fingers.

They still tingle from the neural feedback of his triplet markers.

"How long since his last cycle?"

"Months, probably. Kid's been suppressing everything to stay functional." Mira checks his pulse, professional calm restored. "Combat pheromones hit suppressed systems like a tunnel cave-in. Body goes haywire tryin’ to process all that backed-up chemistry.”

"Will he be okay?"

"Physically? Stone-solid. Emotionally..." She shrugs. "That’s gonna be a deeper dig. He’s gonna wake up ashamed as hell. Probably won't look you in the eye for weeks."

Your stomach clenches. "I had to—"

"I know. You did what was necessary." Mira's voice is gentle. "Doesn't make it feel any better."

She sighs as she turns back where she came from, probably to get some equipment to treat you and Namjoon.

Speaking of the devil…

You turn around to glance at him.

He’s been watching this entire clusterfuck with those calculating eyes. Taking notes. Processing data. Learning exactly how rebels break down when their biology turns against them.

"Enjoying the show?" you ask, voice loaded with residual anger.

He doesn't flinch at your hostility. "Educational. I wasn't aware combat pheromones could trigger such rapid cycling in suppressed individuals."

"Good to know it was educational for you,” sarcasm drips from your lips.

"Indeed." His gaze shifts to Jungkook's unconscious form. "Though I must say—your attachment to him compromised your tactical response. Emotional consideration delayed optimal neutralization by approximately ninety seconds."

"Optimal neutralization," you repeat slowly.

"Immediate sedation would have been more efficient than attempting verbal de-escalation."

The clinical way he dissects what just happened makes you want to hit something.

Preferably his face.

"He's not a tactical problem to be neutralized," you snarl. "He's a person. A rascal who's been through too much shit and deserves better than—"

"He's a security risk whose biological responses created operational complications."

You step toward him, hands clenching into fists.

"You want to say that again?"

The air trembles.

Your own combat pheromones haven’t settled from the fight with Jungkook, still flooding your system, making your skin feel too tight, your pulse hammer against your throat.

The adrenaline crash should be hitting by now, but instead everything feels hypercharged. Raw.

Like you could tear through steel with your bare hands.

“I said he’s a security risk whose biological responses created operational complications,” Namjoon repeats, voice flat as winter stone. “Should I repeat myself a third time?”

You take another step forward, noticing the exact moment his pupils dilate.

“Listen here, you absolute piece of shit,” your voice trembles with rage. “That was not a fucking security risk, that was someone having a breakdown because your fucking system destroyed everything he cares about.”

“No. That was a predictable stress response that could have been managed more efficiently with immediate sedation.”

“Are you implying he’s a device that malfunctioned?”

“From a tactical standpoint, that assessment is accurate.”

Your vision goes red around the edges.

The urge to hit him builds like pressure behind your sternum. Every muscle coiled, ready to spring. Combat pheromones spiking higher, that sharp chemical tang flooding the air until you can taste it on your tongue.

But underneath that familiar scent of violence and adrenaline, you detect something else.

Something warm. Subtle.

Like hot chocolate on a winter morning. Steam rising from a mug, sweetness cutting through bitter cold.

What the fuck?

You blink, trying to place it.

The scent doesn’t belong here—not in this sterile clinic, not with the reek of blood and antiseptic and Jungkook’s leftover rut-pheromones.

But it’s there. Faint but unmistakable.

“You’re exhibiting elevated combat pheromone levels following your physical altercation,” his voice snags your attention back. “Those levels haven’t decreased despite the resolution of the conflict.”

“So?”

"So unless you want to experience the same biological cascade your associate just underwent, I suggest you back off."

"The same—" You stare at him. "What the fuck are you implying?"

"Your last documented cycle was forty-three days ago according to Consortium medical records. Well within standard suppression range."

The casual invasion of privacy makes you want to gouge his eyes out. "You pulled my medical files?"

"Standard procedure for matched pairs." His voice remains level. "Your combat pheromones haven't decreased despite conflict resolution. At our compatibility percentage, that creates... complications."

You know exactly what he means.

Every kid in Veyrah learns it during basic biology—how combat and arousal share neural pathways in adapted Veyran physiology. How hatred and desire light up identical brain regions. How arousal gets redirected towards the person most compatible with you.

Fighting is foreplay if you let it be. Everyone knows that.

"One hundred percent compatibility is unprecedented," he continues, and something in his tone makes you pause. "No documented cases exist for behavioral modeling."

"Why are you still talking?"

"Historical data from ninety-six percent matches shows a ninety-three percent coupling rate during combat-triggered arousal states. Extrapolating upward—"

"We're not a fucking spreadsheet."

"We're exactly that. The Algorithm doesn't create compatibility—it reveals what already exists." He tilts his head, studying you. "You understand the implications, yet you continue engaging."

You know what staying here means, what letting your combat pheromones spike means.

You know that every second you spend wanting to tear his throat out is simultaneously making your body recognize him as—

No.

"Go fuck yourself," you snarl.

"Engaging in sustained aggressive behavior toward a perfect genetic match is essentially voluntary foreplay," he states. "You know this. Yet you escalate. Which suggests you either want the consequence or you don't care about it."

The condescending tilt makes you want to throttle him.

"You think I'm trying to fuck you," you say flatly, and the words feel like acid in your mouth.

"I think your endocrine system doesn't distinguish cleanly between kill and claim when a match is perfect." His gaze never moves from your face. "You're not presently aroused by me. You're aroused by stimulus and aftermath and I’m the most compatible body in your radius. If you continue to test me physically, your body will interpret it as escalation toward coupling because that is what the biology is designed to do in a Third State arc."

"Stop talking."

"Back up."

You don’t.

You reach for the collar of his shirt, slam him against the wall behind him.

"I fucking hate you, do you get that? I don't want you. I don't want this. I would rather feed myself to the Spiral than touch you for anything other than harm."

"Believe me, the feeling is symmetrical. You are intolerable. You are also necessary. Both things can be true. But it does not change the fact that hatred at this intensity with our compatibility percentage—"

"Will make me want to gut you! Period. End of fucking story." You spit out, your eyes darting between his pupils. "Not everyone's a walking libido during combat, fucker. Some of us have actual self-control."

"Self-control." He repeats it like he's tasting the words. "Is that what you call this?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You've tilted your head to expose your throat twice during this conversation."

Your hand flies to your neck. "Bullshit."

"You've also stepped closer six times while claiming you want distance. Your pupils dilate every time I speak. Your breathing—"

"Shut the fuck up."

He does, but his eyes say everything.

Dark violet and steady and so fucking certain it makes you want to scream.

"Here's what you're not getting," you hiss. "I choose violence. Always. And just because my body might get confused about what kind of violence doesn't mean my brain does."

"Your brain doesn't control your biochemistry."

"My brain controls my choices. And I choose to break your fucking nose before I'd ever—"

"Ever what?"

The way he asks it—quiet, almost curious—makes something hot and vicious curl in your stomach.

"Before I’d ever fuck you."

His lip curls at that. “You’re saturated with combat pheromones. You're maintaining proximity to the only viable genetic match in range. At our compatibility percentage, even this conversation is flooding your system with arousal markers whether you acknowledge them or not."

Each word is perfectly calibrated to piss you off.

Which means more combat pheromones.

Which means—

Fuck.

"You're doing this on purpose," you realize, letting go of his collar.

He adjusts it. "Doing what?"

"Baiting me. Making me angry so my body—" You cut yourself off. "You manipulative piece of shit."

"I'm being diagnostically accurate."

"You're being a fucking asshole who thinks he can make me—"

"I'm not making you do anything." His voice drops lower. "Every aggressive action you take is voluntary. You could leave. You could create distance. You choose not to."

The truth of it makes you want to hit something.

Preferably his face.

"Maybe I want to piss you off," you snap.

"Maybe you want something else."

Condescending prick.

“You get off on this, don’t you?” The words tumble out before you can stop them. “Being all stupidly condescending.”

His eyebrows rise slightly. “Getting off? I am not watching you get naked right now.”

Your eyes widen. Heat flames across your cheeks, spreading down your throat.

“That’s not what I—why would you—” You sputter, whipping around to check who’s near to have heard this—but Mira is not present.

Still. Details matter.

“I was not naked!”

“I fail to understand your accusation.”

“You know exactly what I meant!”

“You inquired whether I derive pleasure from literal interpretation of data. I clarified that I am not currently observing you in a state of undress, which was your previous definition of the phrase.”

Right.

The fucking preparation chamber incident when he allegedly had to monitor you changing for ‘safety purposes’.

Holy fucking storms, how literal can this piece of shit be?

“That’s not what get off means, you absolute—”

“Then clarify.”

"It means—" You stop, realizing you're about to explain orgasms to a man who probably approaches climax like a mathematical proof. "It means deriving sexual pleasure from something. Anything. It means climaxing."

"Ah." Something shifts in his expression. "I see."

The clinical way he processes it makes you want to strangle him.

"Do you? Do you really?"

"Sexual gratification through psychological dominance." He pauses, considering. "An interesting correlation to examine."

"You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Turning everything into data."

"Data is reliable." He leans infinitesimally closer—enough to prove he can, not enough to invade your space. Calculated bait. "Unlike voluntary combat responses from someone who claims to want distance."

"I don't want distance. I want you dead."

"Death requires proximity. As does killing. As does—"

"Don't."

“So step back.”

A slight curve touches the corner of his lip.

"Unless you want to get off."

The way he lands it—clean, almost polite—makes something snap.

You move without thinking. Fist bunched in his jacket collar, using momentum to connect his spine with the wall. The impact pushes air from his lungs in a soft rush that's more temperature than sound.

Your forearm bars across his collarbone, pinning him against peeling paint and water-stained drywall. His head tilts against the wall, throat exposed just enough to make you notice the pale column of it.

Not a submission. A calculation.

"You do not get to say that to me," you hiss, leaning your weight forward—not enough pressure to choke, just enough to remind him you could. "You don't get to weaponize slang and biology like you're doing me a favor."

His lashes lower just a fraction, a slow blink that reads like a long calculation coming up true.

And then, finally, he gives you something new.

Voice lower, still precise, edged with a private. "I am being precise with language. Precision is a requirement of Valis Core conditioning."

"You're being a smartass."

"I tend toward literalism. I’m Valiskan. It’s in our DNA." His pulse beats steady under your forearm—too steady for someone supposedly threatened. "You use slang. I am bound to decode and test it."

You hate that he makes sense.

You hate that his mouth almost twitches at his own wordplay.

You hate that your pulse spiked at hearing him say 'get off.'

You hate that you can taste winter chocolate at the edges of his cold.

"Listen carefully," you hiss, pressing harder until his collar digs into his throat. "I don't care about your theories. I don't care about your assessments. And I sure as hell don't care about your precision with language."

"Understood."

"Is it? Because you keep talking like I'm some fucking piece of code you can break."

His lips curve into the filthiest smile you've ever seen.

"Aren't you? A cipher."

The word hits like ice against heated skin.

"The fuck did you just call me?"

"Cipher."

He says it again, slower. Like he's tasting it. Like it belongs in his mouth.

Like a name that fits better than your own.

Something violent and hot floods through you.

You twist your grip on his jacket, using his momentary smugness against him. Your knee drives up toward his ribs—not to injure, just to fold him forward. When he instinctively contracts to protect his core, you take it as an advantage to spin him away from the wall.

Three steps. That's all it takes to drive him backward across Mira's clinic.

One of the examination tables catches him at the hips. Metal instruments scatter as he hits—scalpels, forceps, a bone saw that clatters to the floor. Your hand finds a surgical probe from the displaced tools, the sharp end gleaming.

You pin it next to his throat, close enough that he'd nick himself if he swallowed too hard.

"Don't you fucking dare give me a nickname," you start.

But he's smiling.

Actually smiling, looking down at you with eyes half-lidded like you've done something delightful instead of threatening.

The surgical probe between you might as well be foreplay for how fucking unbothered he looks.

"You're a code I need to figure out," he says softly, ignoring the sharp metal near his carotid. "And I'm not the architect of the Epitaph system for nothing."

The casual arrogance makes you want to press the probe deeper, watch him bleed just a little. Just enough to wipe that satisfaction off his face.

"I could puncture your jugular right now."

"You could try."

"I could succeed."

"Unlikely. But the attempt would be... illuminating."

"What the hell is wrong with you two? I swear to the storms, I leave for one second…”

Mira's voice cuts through like a blade.

Both of you turn toward her, and you realize how this must look—you pinning him while combat pheromones flood the air with aggression and arousal.

"Separate," she says, horror creeping into her voice. "And somebody explain why I walked into my own clinic to hear 'get naked' and 'get off' in the same damn conversation."

You shove away from him like he burned you. He rolls his shoulders once, smooth, unfazed.

"He's twisting slang," you snap at Mira, heat licking at your face. "Like a smug little—"

"I used it correctly," Namjoon says, maddeningly bland. "Different context than earlier."

Mira gives you a look that says 'not here, not like this.' Her hands move—injector, nasal chemoscrub, filter tabs.

"Both of you, over here. Now. You're spiking off each other like idiots. I can run a dampener sweep before this caves in on us again."

You want to argue. Want to tell Mira to fuck off with her dampeners and let you handle this yourself.

But your lip is split and your ribs ache from when he slammed you into the wall in the vehicle and the adrenaline crash is finally hitting, making your hands shake just enough to be noticeable.

Though worst of all is that fucking scent—winter storm mixed with something warm and sweet—that still curls around your hindbrain like smoke.

“Fine,” you mutter, dropping onto the examination table beside Jungkook’s unconscious form.

Mira moves immediately. Antiseptic wipe across your lip, cold and sharp enough to make you hiss.

“Hold still.”

The dermabond feels like liquid fire as she seals the cut. You dig your nails into your palms to keep from flinching.

“Ribs next. Shirt up.”

You hesitate, glancing toward Namjoon. He’s standing exactly where you left him, watching with those eerily violet eyes.

“Turn around,” you tell him.

“No.”

“I’m not—”

“Medical assessment requires visual confirmation of injury severity,” he says in that default tone.

Heat flames across your cheeks. The fucking audacity—

“Turn around,” Mira says quietly.

Namjoon blinks, hesitates for a second, but finally turns. Smooth pivot, hands clasped behind his back, facing the wall.

“So when she says it, you listen?” The words rip out before you can stop them, voice climbing higher with disbelief and rage.

He glances over his shoulder, expression unchanged. “Dr. Mira holds medical authority within this facility. You possessed no such authority during our previous encounter.”

“Dr. MIRAITH,” you snap, fury spiking white-hot. “For you. You don’t know her.”

“Apologies.” His tone doesn’t change. “Dr. Miraith.”

The formal correction makes it worse somehow. Like he’s just filed away another piece of data about proper protocol rather than acknowledging the basic fucking respect of using someone’s actual name.

“Lift the shirt,” Mira says quietly. “Let me see.”

You reluctantly turn your head towards the doctor, pulling the fabric up to just below your bra line, exposing the left side of your ribcage. Purple bruising blooms across pale skin—handprint-shaped where Namjoon’s fingers dug in during your fight in the transport.

“Fuck,” Mira breathes. “When did this happen?”

“Earlier.”

“How earlier?”

You glance at Namjoon.

“Transport incident,” you say finally.

Mira’s hands probe the bruising with gentle pressure. When she hits the worst spot, you can’t quite swallow the sharp intake of breath.

“Hairline fracture,” she diagnoses. “Maybe two. Nothing displaced, but you’re lucky you didn’t puncture a lung throwing yourself around like an idiot.”

She reaches for a dermal regenerator, the device humming to life with a soft blue glow.

“This’ll hurt for about thirty seconds, then you’ll feel better than you have in weeks.”

The regenerator’s field penetrates deep, heat spreading through damaged tissue as cellular repair accelerates. It feels like being burned from the inside out, then sudden, blessed relief as the pain fades to nothing.

“Better?”

You test a deep breath. No pain. No sharp spikes when you move.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Mira turns toward Namjoon. “Your turn. Sleeve up.”

He doesn’t move. “Unnecessary. The damage is superficial.”

“The damage is deep puncture wounds that are still actively bleeding,” Mira counters. “You want to explain to Consortium medical why you developed sepsis from untreated rebel bite wounds?”

You snort. “Rebel bite wounds. Make it sound like I’m some kind of animal.”

He turns around, and you catch the moment he starts rolling up his blood-stained sleeve.

The fabric peels away to reveal—

Fuck.

His forearms are… they’re actually kind of impressive, for someone who shouldn’t do more than scientific work.

Lean muscle definition running from wrist to elbow, veins standing out beneath pale skin like roadmaps.

You blink, dragging your gaze away.

Since when do you notice shit like that?

Since never. That’s when.

Must be the adrenaline crash making you weird.

“Are you not?” Namjoon asks mildly.

The casual insult hits like a slap. “Excuse me?”

“An animal. Feral aggression. Territorial marking through dental contact. Pack behavior prioritizing emotional attachment over tactical logic.” He tilts his head slightly. “If not animal, then what would you call it?”

Your hands clench into fists. The urge to hit him builds like pressure behind your sternum again.

“I’d call it a normal fucking response to being manhandled by a psychopath.”

“Psychopathy implies lack of empathy and disregard for social norms. I experience appropriate empathy within functional parameters and adhere strictly to Consortium behavioral standards.”

“Consortium behavioral standards,” you repeat slowly. “Those the same standards that let you watch people strip without consent?”

“Those observations served legitimate security purposes.”

“Those observations served your sick fucking—”

“Impressive,” Mira observes clinically. “Clean penetration, no tearing. You’ve got good bite technique.”

You glance at the wound, at the teeth marks that stand out in perfect detail against his skin. Deeper than you’d thought—clean penetration without tearing.

“It’s not technique,” you mutter. “It’s just anger.”

“This is way too precise for it to be ‘just anger,’ right?” She glances at you with curiosity. “Where’d you learn to bite like that?”

You don’t answer. Because the truth is uglier than technique.

You learned it as a kid in the labor camps.

When you were small enough that teeth were your only weapon, you figured out how to make them count. How to bite deep enough to hit nerve clusters without destroying so much flesh that infection became a bigger threat than retaliation.

Survival skills they don’t teach in Consortium academies.

The regenerator hums as Mira runs it over Namjoon’s forearm. His expression doesn’t change as the wounds seal, muscle and skin knitting back together until only faint white lines remain.

He flexes his arm, testing range of motion. The muscle definition becomes even more pronounced with movement, tendons shifting beneath skin like—

You blink hard, forcing your gaze away.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

“Now. Both of you need dampeners,” Mira continues, holding up the injectors. “Neurochemical inhibitors. Your pheromone levels are spiking off each other like a bad echo.”

She presses the first injector to your neck.

Cool numbness spreads through your bloodstream. Almost immediately, the electric tension under your skin starts to fade. The raw edge that made everything feel too sharp, too intense—it dims to manageable levels.

Still hate him. Still want to strangle him with your bare hands.

But without urgency driving every thought.

“Better?”

You nod, testing the difference. “Yeah. Clearer.”

Mira turns to Namjoon. “Your turn.”

He doesn’t resist as she presses the second injector to his throat. You watch his face for any change, any sign the dampener affects him.

Nothing. Same perfect control.

But the room feels colder.

Up here the air is always more breathable.

It’s mainly because Mira’s clinic sits at Level 38—deep enough that mineral dust coats your tongue, shallow enough that you can still breathe without a filter—hence why, climbing toward the main square means ascending into territory where oxygen content increases.

Level 18. Where Hollow Crest puts on its public face.

The transition hits in stages.

Right off the bat, the temperature drops three degrees as industrial heating gives way to cheaper thermal systems.

Then, the mining equipment hum that’s constantly droning on in the background fades to something almost manageable.

And finally, the darkness—that oppressive, cave-deep blackness—transforms into harsh artificial glare from overhead arrays that haven’t been properly maintained in years.

Flickering. Always flickering.

“What’s the ambient temperature variance between levels?” Namjoon asks, tilting his head.

“Eight to twelve degrees,” you answer, clipped.

Never give him more than he asks for.

“Humidity increases with depth due to groundwater proximity,” he continues, still cataloging. “Air quality degradation follows expected patterns based on ventilation infrastructure decay.”

He’s turning your home into a fucking research project.

“Glad it meets your scientific standards,” you mutter.

The vertical city rises around you in layers—scaffolding welded to scaffolding, platforms stacked on platforms until the artificial light blooms overhead look more like distant stars than functional infrastructure.

Home sweet home.

Or what passed for it before you were thrusted into a vehicle to Valis Core against your will.

“The structural integrity appears compromised,” Namjoon observes, gaze tracking the support beams that hold this section together. “Load-bearing columns show significant stress fractures.”

“Yeah, well. Hollow Crest wasn’t exactly built by Consortium engineers with unlimited budgets.”

You don’t elaborate. Don’t tell him how half these platforms were welded together by exhausted workers during twelve-hour shifts, how the ‘compromised structural integrity’ is just what happens when you build a city inside mining tunnels that were never meant to hold this much weight.

He doesn’t need to know that.

So you don’t give him it.

The square opens up ahead—a massive carved-out chamber that used to house primary excavation operations before the veins dried up. Now it’s just empty space filled with desperate commerce and bodies that have nowhere else to go.

Namjoon walks half a step behind you, his boots too clean against cracked concrete that’s seen more blood than rain.

A group of tunnel workers passes, their faces smudged with mineral dust. Their eyes slide over you with brief recognition—you’re back—before landing on Namjoon.

Their faces change.

Namjoon doesn’t seem to notice. His attention shifts to the workers with what you recognize as scientific interest, cataloging details. Probably noting their equipment, their gait, their fucking posture for one of his lil weird assessments.

Who knows what that man is even thinking half the time.

“Curious,” he murmurs. “The local population maintains consistent visual contact patterns.”

Curious.

Right.

Like people crammed into tunnels because there’s nowhere else to go is a fascinating data point instead of a fucking tragedy.

‘The stares aren’t curious. They’re hostile’ you want to tell him.

But you don’t.

He should see for himself.

Old women clutching ration bags look at him like he’s disease incarnate. Men lean against tunnel supports, arms crossed, eyes tracking his movement with the kind of attention you give potential threats. Even the kids—hollow-eyed things who should be playing—watch him pass with expressions too old for their faces.

They know who he is. What he represents.

The architect of systematic murder, walking through the bones of the people his Algorithm destroyed.

Your jaw clenches. Part of you wants to warn him.

The other part—the larger, meaner part—wants to see what happens when he finally realizes.

“This way,” you mutter, angling toward the food district.

Your stomach clenches, reminding you it’s been hours since you’ve eaten. The dampener Mira gave you dulled the edge of everything, including the hunger, but now it’s creeping back with a vengeance.

Food. You need food.

The main market spreads across the central platform—stalls cobbled together from scrap metal and prayer, selling whatever people managed to scrape together this cycle.

Which is to say, not much. Never much, if you’re being honest.

And there—

Niphyno.

She stands at one of the vendor stalls, back rigid, shoulders squared like she’s preparing for combat instead of buying food. Her hair—white, though the indigo roots mean she’s due for another dye—is pulled back in that same brutal braid, strands escaping to frame her face.

She’s examining the offerings like she’s conducting actual research on them.

You approach before you can think better of it.

“You hauling all the food for yourself again?”

Niphyno doesn’t look at you. Her fingers trace over the preserved rations, calculating portions infinitesimally because you know what it’s like to know scarcity intimately.

“No,” she says, voice flat. “Just making sure Jimin gets his part.”

Ah.

Yeah, that tracks.

Jimin’s got a tendency to let others take more even when it means he gets less. Too fucking nice for a world that’ll eat him alive.

“He’s way too nice for his own good,” you mutter.

Niphyno’s lips curve into something that’s not quite a smile. “You could learn a thing or two from him.”

The words hit exactly where she aimed them.

“Right. Because nice is what keeps people alive in Hollow Crest.”

“Better than whatever the fuck you’re doing.” She finally glances at you, dark eyes unreadable. “Bringing Consortium filth into our sector like you’re giving tours.”

Heat flares in your chest. “It’s not like I had a fucking choice—”

“You always have a choice.” Her attention shifts back to the food. “You just keep making shit ones.”

Kael clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the tension. “You want the usual, Niph?”

“Yeah. Double portions on the protein bars. Jimin needs the calories.”

She’s not wrong.

Last time you saw him, he looked half-dead on his feet. Whatever medical work he’s doing is burning through him like fire through paper.

“And get her something too,” Niphyno adds, jerking her chin toward you.

You blink. “I can buy my own—”

“Shut up and let me do something decent today.” She pulls out credits, counts them like she needs to make sure nothing’s missing. “Kael, whatever she wants. Within reason.”

The shopkeeper nods, turning to you expectantly.

“Protein bar,” you manage. “And whatever fruit paste you’ve got left.”

The vendor finishes packing, and Niphyno places her credits on the counter. But you’re faster—slapping your own chip against the reader before she can protest.

“I can pay for my own food,” she says, irritation threading through every syllable.

“I know.”

“Then why—”

“Consider it a tax for your sparkling personality.”

Niphyno’s jaw tightens. “Stubborn bitch.”

“Runs in the family.”

She scoffs, grabbing her own supplies.

Then she’s moving toward the communal eating area—scattered tables bolted to the floor, benches worn smooth by countless bodies. She picks one in the corner, drops onto the bench with one knee pulled up to her chest, the other leg sprawled open in a posture that screams ‘don’t talk to me.’

You follow. Because this is what you do. She’ll sit and eat, and you’ll keep her company supposedly to make sure nobody tries to steal her food.

Never mind that nobody in Hollow Crest would dare steal from Niphyno.

But you do. Mind.

You settle across from her with both thighs spread, arms crossed over your chest. The food sits between you, untouched.

Niphyno’s gaze slides past you, landing on Namjoon where he stands observing the market with that same weird scientific demeanor.

“That the match?” She jerks her chin toward him. “The architect of doom?”

“The very same.”

She stares at him for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then her gaze tracks upward, following the tunnel ceiling’s curve.

“He’s too fucking tall,” she mutters. “Gonna crack his skull on the ceiling.”

The image makes something almost like amusement flicker in your chest.

Namjoon's perfect Valis Core posture meeting Hollow Crest’s low tunnels with consequences.

“I sincerely fucking hope so,” you say. “Would save me the trouble of killing him myself.”

Niphyno’s mouth curves.

Her gaze slides past you again, settling on Namjoon where he’s still standing like a fucking statue.

Analyzing. Always analyzing.

God, he’s exhausting.

“He gonna stand there all day cataloguing structural failures,” she asks, voice flat, “or is he actually capable of sitting down like a normal person?”

You make a noise in the back of your throat. Annoyed. Tired.

“Trust me, normal’s not in his vocabulary.”

“So why haven’t you killed him yet?”

The question lands casual. Like she’s asking about the weather. Like murder is just another item on today’s agenda.

Which, to be fair, in Hollow Crest it usually is.

“Funny story about that,” you mutter, finally leaning over to tear open your protein bar. “We literally just came from Mira’s. I’ve tried twice already.”

Niphyno’s eyebrow arches. “And?”

“And he’s still breathing. Obviously.”

“You’re losing your touch, yeah?"

“Fuck off.”

She leans back, that sharp smile playing at her lips. The one that means she’s about to say something that’ll piss you off.

“So.” She tilts her head, studying Namjoon like he’s something stuck to her boot. “You gonna introduce me to your boyfriend, or…? Thought you’d need family approval for this kinda thing, right?”

“I’ll be sure to hit you up when we need someone to watch the kids.”

Niphyno’s face contorts into immediate disgust, nose wrinkling like you’ve just offered her something rotting. “Absolutely fucking not. I’d rather—”

But you’re already turning, waving sharply at him.

“Hey. Get over here and stop cataloging the fucking ceiling integrity or whatever the storms you’re doing, right?”

You grab the protein bar you opened, bite down—

The taste hits your tongue and you immediately spit it back out.

“What the fuck.” The words come out muffled around the half-chewed mess. “This is disgusting.”

Niphyno’s watching you with something that might be amusement if she ever let herself feel anything that light.

“What, two days in Valis Core and your palate already shifted?”

“Hilarious.” You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “I haven’t eaten a single fucking thing since they took me there.”

The movement stops.

Niphyno freezes mid-chew, her jaw going still. Those ice-blue eyes lock onto yours, narrowing slightly.

Then she’s shoving one of her very own bars toward you. The kind you actually like. The ones that taste less like recycled protein paste and more like actual food.

“Eat.” Her voice drops lower, meaner if that’s possible. “You look fucking miserable. It’s depressing."

You stare at the bar. At her hand. At the offering that feels too much like concern.

“I’m fine.”

“You look like shit. Eat the fucking bar.”

Namjoon chooses that moment to arrive at the table. He stands there for a second—probably calculating optimal seating arrangements or some other bullshit—before executing a formal bow.

Perfect ninety-degree angle. Hands positioned just so.

Very Valis Core. Very proper.

“Greetings. Commander Kim Namjoon, Epitaph Program oversight.”

Niphyno looks up at him slowly. Her mouth curves, but there’s nothing approaching warmth in it.

“Revenant,” she says. Just that. No explanation.

You sigh. Gesture at the bench next to you—the closest one, since he’s standing right behind you.

“Sit down before you draw more attention.”

He settles onto the bench with grace, and you can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell that winter-storm scent that seems to follow him everywhere.

Too close.

But moving away would acknowledge the discomfort, so you stay exactly where you are.

You rub your temples, feeling a headache building behind your eyes.

This is already a disaster and it’s barely started.

“So.” Niphyno leans back, one knee pulled up to her chest. “You’re the one who built the death lottery.”

“I architected the Epitaph Algorithm, yes. The system that ensures species survival through managed genetic—”

“Through killing people.” Her voice cuts clean. “Let’s not dress it up in pretty words.”

“Through necessary sacrifice for optimal biological continuation.”

“Same fuckin’ thing, right?”

Namjoon’s head tilts slightly. “It is not the same thing.”

You’ve heard this argument before. About six times in the last two days. You’re not doing it again.

But Niphyno’s studying him with interest now, like he’s a particularly fascinating specimen she’s considering dissecting.

“You talk like a handbook,” she observes. “Everything’s ‘optimal’ this and ‘biological parameters’ that. They train all you Valiskans to sound that dead inside, or is it just natural talent?”

“Precision in communication serves—”

“Tactical purposes, yeah, I fucking bet.” She takes another bite of her ration bar. “You always this much of a conversational vacuum or is this special for us Cresters?”

“I maintain consistent communication protocols regardless of regional designation.”

“Regional designation.” Niphyno’s laugh is brittle. “Hear that? We’re not people, we’re regional designations.”

“I don’t require moral validation for implementing necessary protocols,” he says, voice flat.

“Necessary.” She repeats the word like it tastes foul. “That what you call it when you—”

“You’re half Valiskan,” he interrupts, head tilting slightly as he studies her features.

Niphyno stops chewing.

Completely stops, the food forgotten in her mouth.

“What the fuck,” she says slowly, “did you just say to me?”

Namjoon blinks. Confusion flickers across his features—genuine, uncomprehending.

“I stated that you’re half Valiskan. The biological markers are evident through—”

And that’s when everything goes to shit.

Niphyno moves. Fast—faster than you’ve seen her move in months. Her hand goes for the blade at her hip, the motion smooth and lethal.

The arc is perfect. Aimed directly at Namjoon’s throat. Meant to open his carotid in one clean slice.

But Namjoon’s already moving.

His hand snaps out, fingers closing around her wrist in a way that reminds you of the combat training he’s had since he was a kid.

The one he showed you a couple days ago.

The blade stops inches from his throat, trembling in the air between them.

“No—” The word tears out of you, rough and desperate.

Not because she’s attacking him.

Not because you give a shit about his survival.

But because you can see the calculation happening behind his eyes. Can see him processing threat levels, determining responses, weighing Niphyno against whatever protocols govern his decision-making.

And you know—you know—exactly how much force those fingers can apply.

Your hand shoots out, grabbing Namjoon’s wrist; the one holding Niphyno’s. Your grip is steel, desperate, every ounce of strength you have focused on one simple message: don’t.

“Let go of her,” you say.

But his eyes stay fixed on Niphyno’s wrist, on the blade she’s still trying to drive forward, and you can see him still thinking. Pondering.

Assesing threat level, evaluating the stupid risk.

Deciding if she’s dangerous enough to warrant—

He applies more pressure—not a lot, just enough that Niphyno’s fingers spasm involuntarily, muscles overridden by nerve compression, and the blade clatters to the table.

Ice floods your veins.

“Namjoon—”

“She threatened lethal force,” he states calmly, like he’s explaining basic mathematics. “Appropriate response requires—”

“Please. She’s my sister.”

Whatever calculation he was running seems to dissipate in his brain.

His head snaps toward you, and for one suspended moment, you see his mental processes stutter against something in those violet eyes.

Then his fingers release, Niphyno’s wrist dropping free.

You let go of him immediately, stepping back as Niphyno cradles her wrist, pale fingers pressing against reddened skin where his grip compressed.

Her eyes are wide—not with fear, but with dawning realization.

“So that’s why he isn’t dead yet,” she says quietly, staring at you. “Because you can’t kill him.”

You exhale slowly. “This is what I meant. When I said I’ve tried.”

“How the fuck—” Her eyes move to Namjoon. “That’s not normal, yeah? That’s not just strong.”

“I was trained since childhood,” he states, like this explains everything. “Standard protocol.”

Niphyno goes very, very still.

“That’s not standard Valis Core protocol for kids.”

He pauses, blinks. Realizing he’s been caught in his omission of truth. “How would you know that?”

The air goes tight.

Niphyno’s eyes flicker to yours, and she holds your gaze for a second. Two. Then looks back at him.

“Personal experience,” she spits.

And there it is.

The truth neither of you ever speaks. The Valis blood running through both your veins, the heritage you’ve spent your entire lives trying to erase.

Niphyno picks up her blade with her uninjured hand, slides it back into its sheath.

Her eyes stay on him, cold and assessing.

“Well, welcome to Hollow Crest, walking database,” she says flatly. “Try not to bleed on anything important, yeah?”

And with that, she leaves.

next | index

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